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I« 



HE STEPPED FORWARD WITH A SMILE.” — Page II 











“FOR PERCIVAL.” 


A NOVEL. 



IF I TH I L LUSTKATIO NS. 





PHILADELPHIA : 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
1^9. 

Ih-jfj . 


Copyright, 1878, by J. B. Lippincott & Co. 




ILIPPIM^OTT *i-CO. 




CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I. — Thorns and Roses 7 

11 . — “Those Eyes of Yours” n 

III. — Dead Men tell no Tales — Alfred Thorne’s is told by the 

Writer 20 

IV. — Wishing Well and III 26 

V. — Why not Lottie? 33 

VI. — Her Name 37 

VII. — Jael, or Judith, or Charlotte Corday 40 

VlII. — “ Perhaps I’m letting Secrets Out” 41 

IX. — Sissy looks into the Mirror 46 

X. — In Langley Wood *. 52 

XL — Meanwhile 61 

XII.— “Well, what’s Gone from me?” 63 

XIII. — Shadows 65 

XIV. — Godfrey Hammond Prescribes 68 

XV. — “ As Others See us ” 70 

XVI. — Principles and Persons 76 

XVH. — A Midnight Encounter 81 

XVIII. — Love in a Mist 88 

XIX. — Sissy Consults her Oracle 98 

XX. — “I AND MY Mistress, side by side” 105 

XXL — Reconciliation 112 

XXH. — A Thorn in the Flesh 115 

XXHI. — What is Love? 119 

XXIV. — Godfrey Hammond on Bird-Catching 123 

XXV. — Of a Hermit Crab 125 

XXVI. — Of Confession 130 

XX VH. — Sissy Enters into Agag’s Feelings 138 

XXVHI. — Broken Off 146 

5 


6 


CONTENTS. 


PACK 

XXIX. — A Reverie in Rookleigh Church 147 

XXX. — Of a Golden Wedding 15 1 

XXXI.— Why not Lottie? 163 

XXXII.— Lottie Wins 168 

XXXIII. — A Start in Life 173 

XXXIV. — No. 13 Bellevue Street 176 

XXXV. — Of the Landlady’s Daughter 180 

XXXVI. — Wanted — an Organist 183 

XXXVII. — Lydia Rearranges her Cap 190 

XXXVIIL — Concerning Sissy 195 

XXXIX. — Short Reckonings make Long Friends 197 

XL. — Bertie at the Organ 205 

XLI. — Where there’s a Will there’s a Way 208 

XLII. — Walking to St. Sylvester’s 213 

XLIII. — Faint Heart wins Fair Lady 217 

XLIV. — The Last Music-Lesson 219 

XLV — A Thunderbolt in Standon Square 225 

XLVI. — The Result of Percival’s Economy 232 

XLVII. — Consequences 237 

XLVIII. — Engagements — Hostile and Otherwise 246 

XLIX.— How THE Sun rose in Gladness, and set in the Valley of the 

Shadow of Death 257 

L.— Through the Night 266 

LI. — By THE Express 271 

LII. — “ QUAND on a TROUVfe CE QU’ON CHERCHAIT, ON N’A PAS LE TEMPS 

DE LE DIRE: IL FAUT MOURIR ” 275 

LIIL— Afterward 285 



“FOR PERCIVAL.” 


CHAPTER I. 

THORNS AND ROSES. 

r was a long, 
narrow and 
rather low 
room, with 
four win- 
dows look- 
ing out on 
a terrace. 
Jasmine 
and roses 
clustered 
round them, 
and flowers 
lifted their 
heads to the 
broad sills. 
Within, the 
lighted can- 
dles showed furniture that was perhaps 
a little faded and dim, though it had a 
slender, old-fashioned grace which more 
than made amends for any beauty it had 
lost. There was much old china, and 
on the walls were a few family portraits, 
of which their owner was justly proud; 
and in the air there lingered a faint 
fragrance of dried rose-leaves, delicate 
yet unconquerable. Even the full tide 
of midsummer sweetness which flowed 
through the open windows could not al- 
together overcome that subtle memory 
of summers long gone by. 

The master of the house, with a face 
like a wrinkled waxen mask, sat in his 
easy-chair reading the Saturday Review^ 


and a lady veiy like him, only with a lit- 
tle more color and fulness, was knitting 
close by. The light shone on the old 
man’s pale face and white hair, on the 
old lady’s silver-gray dress and flashing 
rings: the knitting-pins clicked, working 
up the crimson wool, and the pages of 
the paper rustled with a pleasant crisp- 
ness as they were turned. By the win- 
dow, where the candlelight faded into 
the soft shadows, stood a young man ap- 
parently lost in thought. His face, which 
was turned a little toward the garden, 
was a noteworthy one with its straight 
forehead and clearly marked, level brows. 
His features were good, and his clear 
olive complexion gave him something 
of a foreign air. He had no beard, and 
his moustache was only a dark shadow 
on his upper lip, so that his mouth stood 
revealed as one which indicated reserve, 
though it was neither stern nor thin-lip- 
ped. Altogether, it was a pleasant face. 

A light step sauntering along the ter- 
race, a low voice softly singing “ Drink to 
Me only with Thine Eyes,” roused him 
from his reverie. He did not move,, but 
his mouth and eyes relaxed into a smile 
as a white figure came out of the dusk 
exactly opposite his window, and singer 
and song stopped together. ‘‘Oh, Per- 
cival ! I didn’t know you had come out 
of the dining-room.” 

‘‘Twenty minutes ago. What have 
you been doing?” 

‘‘Wandering about the garden. What 
could I do on such a perfect night but 

7 



8 


'FOR PERCIVALR 


what I have been doing all this perfect 
day ?” 

She stood looking up at him as she 
spoke. She had an arch, beautiful face 
— the sort of face which would look well 
with patches and powder. Only it would 
have been a sin to powder the hair, which, 
though deep brown, had rich touches of 
gold, as if a happy sunbeam were im- 
prisoned in its waves. Her eyes were 
dark, her lips were softly red : every- 
thing about Sissy Langton’s face was 
delicate and fino. She lifted her hand 
to reach a spray of jasmine just above 
her head, and the lace sleeve above fell 
back from her pretty, slender wrist : 
“Give it to me. Percival ! do you hear.? 
Oh, what a tease you are!" For he 
drew it back when she would have ga- 
thered it. Mrs. Middleton was heard 
making a remark inside. 

“You don’t deserve it," said Perci- 
val. “Here is my aunt saying that the 
hot weather makes you scandalously 
idle." 

“Scandalously idle! Aunt Harriet!” 
Sissy repeated it in incredulous amuse- 
ment, and the old lady’s indignant dis- 
claimer was heard: “Percival! Most 
unusually idle, I said.” 

“ Oh ! most unusually idle ? I beg your 
pardon. But doesn’t that imply a con- 
siderable amount of idleness to be got 
through by one person ?’’ 

“Yes, but you helped me," said Sissy. 
— “Aunt Harriet, listen. He stood on 
my thimble ever so long while he was 
talking this afternoon. How can I work 
without a thimble ?" 

“Impossible !’’ said Percival. “And I 
don’t think I can get you another to- 
morrow : I am going out. On Thursday 
I shall come back and bring you one that 
won’t fit. Friday you must go with me 
to change it. Yes, we shall manage three 
days’ holiday very nicely." 

“ Nonsense ! But it is your fault if I 
am idle." 

“Why, yes. Having no thimble, you 
are naturally unable to finish your book, 
for instance." 

“Oh, I sha’n’t finish that: I don’t like 
it. The heroine is so dreadfully strong- 
minded I don’t believe in her. She never 


% 

does anything wrong; and through she 
suffers tortures — absolute agony, you 
know — she always rises to the occasion 
— nasty thing !" 

“A wonderful woman,” said Percival, 
idly picking sprays of jasmine as he 
spoke. 

Sissy’s voice sank lower: “Do you 
think there are really any women like 
that ?” 

“ Oh yes, I suppose so." 

She took the flowers which he held 
out, and looked doubtfully into his face : 
“ But — do you like them, Percival ?’’ 

“Make the question a little clearer,” 
he said. “I don’t like your ranting, 
pushing, unwomanly women who can 
talk of nothing but their rights. They 
are very terrible. But heroic women — ’’ 
He stopped short. The pause was more 
eloquent than speech. 

“Ah!" said Sissy. “Well — a woman 
like Jael ? or Judith ?’’ 

He repeated the name “Judith." “Or 
Charlotte Corday ?" he suggested after a 
moment. 

It was Sissy’s turn to hesitate, and she 
compressed her pretty lips doubtfully. 
Being in the Old Testament, Jael must 
of course come out all right, even if one 
finds it difficult to like her. Judith’s po- 
sition is less clear. Still, it is a great 
thing to be in the Apocrypha, and then 
living so long ago and so far away makes 
a difference. But Charlotte Corday — a 
young Frenchwoman, not a century dead, 
who murdered a man, and was guillotined 
in those horrible revolutionary times, — 
would Percival say that was the type of 
woman he liked ? 

“Well — Charlotte Corday, then?" 

“Yes, I admire her," he said slowly. 
“ Though I would rather the heroism did 
not show itself in bloodshed. Still, she 
was noble : I honor her. I dare say the 
others were too, but I don’t know so much 
about them." 

“What a poor little thing you must 
think me!" said Sissy. “I could never 
do anything heroic." 

"Why not ?" 

“ I should be frightened. I can’t bear 
people to be angry with me. I should run 
away, or do something silly.” 


^^FOR PERCIVAL, 


9 


** Then I hope you won’t be tried,” said 
Percival. 

She shook her pretty head : " People 
always talk about casting gold into the 
furnace, and it’s coming out only the 
brighter and better. Things are not 
good for much if you would rather they 
were not tried.” 

Her hand was on the window-frame 
as she spoke, and the young man touch- 
ed a ring she wore : ” Gold is tried in the 
furnace — yes, but not your pearls. Be- 
sides, I’m not so sure that you would fail 
if you were put to the test.” 

She smiled, well pleased, yet uncon- 
vinced. 

“You think,” he went on, “that peo- 
ple who did great deeds did them with- 
out an effort — were always ready, like a 
bow always strung ? No, no. Sissy : they 
felt very weak sometimes. Isn’t there 
anything in the world you think you 
could die for ? ' Even if you say ' No ’ 
now, there may be something one of 
these days.” 

The twilight hid the soft glow which 
overspread her face. “Anything in the 
world you could die for?” Anything? 
Anybody? Her blood flowed in a strong, 
courageous current as her heart made 
answer, “Yes — for one.” 

But she did not speak, and after a mo- 
ment her companion changed the subject. 
“That’s a pretty ring,” he said. 

Sissy started from her reverie: “Hor- 
ace gave it me. Adieu, Mr. Percival 
Thorne : I’m going to look at my roses.” 

“Thank you. Yes, I shall be delight- 
ed to come.” And Percival jumped out. 
“ Don’t look at me as if I’d said something 
foolish. Isn’t that the right way to an- 
swer your kind invitation ?” 

“Invitation! What next?” demand- 
ed Sissy with pretty scorn. And the pair 
went off together along the terrace and 
into the fragrant dusk. 

A minute later it occurred to Mrs. Mid- 
dleton to fear that Sissy might take cold, 
and she went to the window to look after 
her. But, as no one was to be seen, she 
turned away and encountered her broth- 
er, who had been watching them too. 
“Do they care for each other?” he ask- 
ed abruptly. 


“ How can I tell ?” Mrs. Middleton re- 
plied. “Of course she is fond of 'him in 
a way, but I can’t help fancying some- 
times that Horace" — ” 

“ Horace !” Mr. Thorne’s smile was 
singularly bland. “Oh, indeed! Hor- 
ace — a charming arrangement ! Pray 
how many more times is Mr. Horace to 
supplant that poor boy i*” His soft voice 
changed suddenly, as one might draw a 
sword from its sheath. “Horace had 
better not cross Percival’s path, or he 
will have to deal with me. Is he not 
content ? What next must he have ?” 

Mrs. Middleton paused. She could 
have answered him. There was an ob- 
vious reply, but it was too crushing to be 
used, and Mr. Thorne braved it accord- 
ingly. 

“ Better leave your grandsons alone, 
Godfrey,” she said at last, “if you’ll take 
my advice ; which I don’t think you ever 
did yet. You’ll only make mischief. And 
there is Sissy to be considered. Let the 
child choose for herself.” 

“And you think she can choose — 
Horace?" 

“Why not ?” 

“Choose Horace rather than Perci- 
val ?” 

“ I should,” said the old lady with 
smiling audacity. “And I would rather 
she did. Horace’s position is better.” 

Mr. Thorne uttered something akin 
to a grunt, which might by courtesy be 
taken for a groan: “Oh, how mercenary 
you women are ! Well, if you marry a 
man for his money, Horace has the best 
of it — if he behaves himself. Yes, I ad- 
mit that — if he behaves himself." 

“And Horace is handsomer,” said 
Mrs. Middleton with a smile. 

“ Pink-and-white prettiness !” scoffed 
Mr. Thorne. 

“Nonsense!” The color mounted to 
the old lady’s forehead, and she spoke 
sharply : “ We didn’t hear anything about 
that when he was a lad, and we were 
afraid of something amiss with his lungs : 
it would have been high treason to say a 
syllable against him then. And now, 
though I suppose he will always be a 
little delicate (you’d be sorry if you lost 
him, Godfrey), it’fe a shame to talk as if 


lO 


^^FOR PERCIVALR 


the boys were not to be compared. They 
are just of a height, not half an inch dif- 
ference, and the one as brave and manly 
as the other. Horace is fair, and Perci- 
val is dark ; and you know, as well as I 
do, that Horace is the handsomer.” 

Mr. Thorne shifted his ground : ” If I 
were Sissy I would choose my husband 
for qualities that are rather more than 
skin-deep.” 

“By all means. And still I would 
choose Horace.” 

“What is amiss with Percival ?” 

” He is not so frank and open. I don’t 
want to say anything against him — I like 
Percival — but I wish he were not quite so 
reserved.” 

‘‘What next ?” said Mr. Thorne with a 
short laugh. ‘‘Why, only this morning 
you said he talked more than Horace.” 

‘‘ Talked ? Oh yes, Percival can talk, 
and about himself too,” said Mrs. Mid- 
dleton with a smile. ‘‘But he can keep 
his secrets all the time. I don’t want to 
say anything against him: I like him 
very much — ” 

‘‘No doubt,” said Mr. Thorne. 

‘‘But I don’t feel quite sure that I know 
him. He isn’t like Horace. You know 
Horace’s friends — ” 

‘‘ Trust me for that.” 

‘‘ But what do you know of Percival’s ? 
I heard him tell Sissy he would be out to- 
morrow. Will you ever know where he 
went ?” 

‘‘ I sha’n’t ask him.” 

“No,” she retorted, ‘‘you dare not! 
Isn’t it a rule that no one is ever to ques- 
tion Percival ?” 

‘‘ And while I’m master here it shall be 
obeyed. It’s the least I can do. The 
boy shall come and go, speak or hold his 
tongue, as he pleases. No one shall cross 
him — Horace least of all — while I’m mas- 
ter here, Harriet; but that won’t be very 
long.” 

“ 1 don’t want you to think any harm 
of Percival’s silence,” she answered gen- 
tly. ‘‘ I don’t for one moment suppose 
he has any secrets to be ashamed of. I 
myself like people to be open, that is 
all.” 

‘‘ If I wanted to know anything Perci- 
val would tell me,” said Mr. Thorne. 


Mrs. Middleton’s charity was great. 
She hid the smile she could not repress. 
“Well,” she said, "perhaps I am not fair 
to Percival, but, Godfrey, you are not 
quite just to Horace.” 

He turned upon her: "Unjust to Hor- 
ace ? If" 

She knew what he meant. He had 
shown Horace signal favor, far above 
his cousin, yet what she had said was 
true. Perhaps some of the injustice had 
been in this very favor. “ Here are our 
truants!” she exclaimed. She and her 
brother had not talked so confidentially 
for years, but the moment her eyes fell 
on Sissy her thoughts went back to the 
point at which Mr. Thorne had disturb- 
ed them: "My dearest Sissy, I am so 
afraid you will catch cold.” 

"It can’t be done to-night,” said Per- 
cival. “Won’t you come and try?” But 
the old lady shook her head. 

" All right, auntie ! we won’t stop out,” 
said Sissy ; and a moment later she made 
her appearance in the drawing-room with 
her hands full of roses, which she tossed 
carelessly on the table. Mr. Thorne had 
picked up his paper, and stood turning 
the pages and pretending to read, but 
she pushed it aside to put a rosebud in 
his coat. 

" Roses are more fit for you young 
people than for an old fellow like me,” 
he said. "Why don’t you give one to 
Percival ?” 

She looked over her shoulder at young 
Thorne. " Do you want one ?” she said. 

He smiled, with a slight movement of 
his head and his dark eyes fixed on hers. 

“Then, why didn’t you pick one when 
we were out ? Now, weren’t you foolish ? 
Well, never mind. What color?” 

"Choose for him,’' said Mr. Thorne. 

Sissy hesitated, looking from Percival’s 
face to a bud of deepest crimson. Then, 
throwing it down, “ No, you shall have 
yellow,” she exclaimed: "Laura Falco- 
ner’s complexion is something like yours, 
and she always wears yellow. As soon 
as one yellow dress is worn out she gets 
another.” 

"She is a most remarkable young wo- - 
man if she waits till the first one is worn 
out,” said Percival. 


*'FOR PERCIVALr 


"Am I to put your rose in or not?" 
Sissy demanded. 

He stepped forward with a smile, and 
looked darkly handsome as he stood 
there with Sissy putting the yellow rose 
in his coat and glancing archly up at 
him. 

Mr. Thorne from behind his Saturday 
Review watched the girl who might, per- 
haps, hold his favorite’s future in her 
hands. " Does he care for her ?” he 
wondered. If he did, the old man felt 
that he would gladly have knelt to en- 
treat her, " Be good to my poor Per- 
cival.” But did Percival want her to 
be good to him ? Godfrey Thorne was 
altogether in the dark about his grand- 
son’s wishes in the matter. He tried 
hard not to think that he was in the 
dark about every wish or hope of Per- 
cival’s, and he looked up eagerly when 
the latter said something about going 
out the next day. He remembered which 
horse Percival liked, he assented to ev- 
erything, but he watched him all the 
time with a wistful curiosity. He did 
not really care where Percival went, but 
he would have given much for such a 
word about his plans as would have 
proved to Harriet, and to himself too, 
that his boy did confide in him some- 
times. It was not to be, however. Young 
Thorne had taken up the local paper and 
the subject dropped. Mr. Thorne may 
have guessed later, but he never knew 
where his roan horse went the next day. 


CHAPTER II. 

“THOSE EYES OF YOURS.” 

Not five miles away that same even- 
ing a conversation was going on which 
would have interested Mrs. Middleton. 

The scene was an up-stairs room in a 
pleasant house near the county town. 
Mrs. Blake, a woman of seven or eight 
and forty, handsome and well preserved, 
but of a high-colored type, leant back in 
an easy-chair lazily unfastening her brace- 
lets, by way of signifying that she had 
begun to prepare for the night. Her two 
daughters were with her. Addie, the 
elder, was at the looking-glass brushing 


1 1 

her hair and half enveloped in its silky 
blackness. She was a, tall, graceful girl, 
a refined likeness of her mother. On 
the rug lay Lottie, three years younger, 
hardly more than a growing girl, long- 
limbed, slight, a little abrupt and angular 
by her sister’s side, her features not quite 
so regular, her face paler in its cloud of 
dark hair. Yet there was a look of de- 
termination and power which was want- 
ing in Addie ; and at times, when Lottie 
was roused, her eyes had a dark splen- 
dor which made her sister’s beauty seem 
comparatively commonplace and tame. 

Stretched at full length, she propped 
her chin on her hands and looked up at 
her mother. " I don’t suppose you care," 
she said, in a clear, almost boyish voice. 

"Not much,” Mrs. Blake replied with 
a smile. " Especially as I rather doubt 
it." 

Addie paused, brush in hand : " I real- 
ly think you’ve made a mistake, Lottie.” 

"Do you really? I haven’t, though," 
said that young lady decidedly. 

" It can’t be — surely,” Addie hesitated, 
with a little shadow on her face. 

"Of course no. Is it likely?” said 
Mrs. Blake, as if the discussion were 
closed. 

"I tell you,” said Lottie stubbornly, 
"Godfrey Hammond told me that Per- 
cival’s father was the eldest son.”’ 

" But it is Horace who has always lived 
at Brackenhill. Percival only goes on a 
visit now and then. Every one knows,” 
said Addie, in almost an injured tone, 
" that Horace is the heir.” 

Lottie raised her head a little and eyed 
her sister intently, with amusement, won- 
der, and a little scorn in her glance. 
Addie, blissfully unconscious, went on 
brushing her hair, still with that look of 
anxious perplexity. 

"This is how it was,” Lottie exclaimed 
suddenly. " Percival was just gone, and 
you were talking to Horace. Up comes 
Godfrey Hammond, sits down by me, 
and says some rubbish about consoling 
me. I think I laughed. Then he look- 
ed at me out of his little, light eyes, and 
said that you and I seemed to get on 
well with his young friends. So I said, 
' Oh yes — middling.’ ” 


12 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


“Upon my word,” smiled Mrs. Blake, 
“ you appear to have distinguished your- 
self in the conversation.” 

“ Didn’t I ?” said Lottie, untroubled 
and unabashed : “ I know it struck me 
so at the time. Then he said something 
— I forget how he put it — about our being 
just the right number and pairing off 
charmingly. So I said, ‘ Oh, of course 
the elder ones went together : that was 
only right.’ ” 

“And what did he say?” 

“Oh, he pinched his lips together and 
smiled, and said, ‘ Don’t you know that 
Percival is the elder ?’ ” 

“ But, Lottie, that proves nothing as to 
his father.” 

“ Who supposed it did ? I said ‘ Fid- 
dlededee! I didn’t mean that: I sup- 
posed they were much about the same 
age, or if Percy were a month or two 
older it made no difference. I meant 
that Horace was the eldest son’s son, so 
of course he was A i.’ ” 

“Well?” said Addie. 

“ Well, then he looked twice as pleased 
with himself as he did before, and said, 
‘ I don’t think Horace told you that. It 
so happens that Percival is not only the 
elder by a month or two, as you say, but 
he is the son of the eldest son.’ Then I 
said ‘ Oh !’ and mamma called me for 
something, and I went.” 

. Mrs. Blake and Addie exchanged 
glances. 

“ Now, could I have made a mistake ?” 
demanded Lottie. 

“It seems plain enough, certainly,” 
her mother allowed. 

“ Then, could Godfrey Hammond have 
made a mistake ? Hasn’t he known the 
Thornes all their lives ? and didn’t he say 
once that he was named Godfrey after 
their old grandfather ?” 

Mrs. Blake assented. 

“Then,” said the girl, relapsing into 
her recumbent position, “ perhaps you’ll 
believe me another time.” 

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Blake: “we’ll 
see when the other time comes. If it is 
as you say, it is curious.” She rose as 
she spoke and went to the farther end 
of the room. As she stood by an open 
drawer putting away the ornaments which 


she had taken off, the candlelight reveal- 
ed a shadow of perplexity on her face 
which increased the likeness between 
herself and Addie. Apparently, Lottie 
was right as to her facts. The estate 
was not entailed, then, and despotic 
power seemed to be rather capriciously 
exercised by the head of the house. If 
Horace should displease his grandfather 
— if, for instance, he chose a wife of whom 
old Mr. Thorne did not approve — would 
his position be very secure ? Mrs. Blake 
was uneasy, and felt that it was very 
wrong of people to play tricks with the 
succession to an estate like Brackenhill. 

Meanwhile, Lottie watched her sister, 
who was thoughtfully drawing her fingers 
through her long hair. “Addie,” she 
said, after a pause, “ what will you do if 
Horace isn’t the heir after all ?” 

“What a silly question ! I sha’n’t do 
anything : there’s nothing for me to do.” 

“ But shall you mind very much ? You 
are very fond of Horace, aren’t you ?” 

“ Fond of him !” Addie repeated. “ He 
is very pleasant to talk to, if you mean 
that.” 

“Oh, you can’t deceive me so ! I be- 
lieve that you are in love with him,” said 
Lottie solemnly. 

The color rushed to Addie’s face when 
her vaguely tender sentiments, indef- 
inite as Horace’s attentions, were de- 
scribed in this startling fashion. “ In- 
deed, I’m nothing of the kind,” she said 
hurriedly. “ Pray don’t talk such utter 
nonsense, Lottie. If you have nothing 
more sensible to say, you had better 
hold your tongue.” 

“But why are you ashamed of it?” 
Lottie persisted : “ I wouldn’t be.” She 
had an unsuspected secret herself, but 
she would have owned it proudly enough 
had she been challenged. 

“ I’m not ashamed,” said Addie ; “ and 
you know nothing about being in love, so 
you had better not talk about it.” 

“Oh yes, T do!” was tne reply, utter- 
ed with Lottie’s calm simplicity of man- 
ner: "I know how to tell whether you 
are in love or not, Addie. What would 
you do if a girl were to win Horace 
Thorne away from you ?” 

Pride and a sense of propriety dictated 


^^FOR PERCIVALr 


13 


Addie’s answer and gave sharpness to 
her voice : “ I should say she was per- 
fectly welcome to him.” 

Lottie considered for a moment : ” Y es, 
I suppose one might say so to her, but 
what would you do? Wouldn’t you want 
to kill her ? And wouldn’t you die of a 
broken heart ?” 

Addie was horrified : ” I don’t want to 
kill anybody, and I’m not going to die 
for Mr. Horace Thorne. Please don’t 
say such things, Lottie: people never do. 
You forget he is only an acquaintance.” 

“No; I don’t think you are in love 
with him, certainly.” Lottie pronounced 
this decision with the air of one who has 
solved a difficult problem. 

‘‘What are you talking about?” Mrs. 
Blake inquired, coming back, and glan- 
cing from Addie’s flushed and troubled 
face to Lottie’s thoughtful eyes. 

‘‘ I was asking Addie if she didn’t want 
Horace to be the heir. I know you do, 
mamma — oh, just for his own sake, be- 
cause you think he’s the nicest, don’t 
you ? I heard you tell him one day ” — 
here Lottie looked up with a caifdid gaze 
and audaciously imitated Mrs. Blake’s 
manner — ‘‘ that though we knew his cou- 
sin first, he — Horace, you know — seem- 
ed to drop so naturally into all our ways 
that it was quite delightful to feel that 
we needn’t stand on any ceremony with 
him.” 

‘‘Good gracious, Lottie! what do you 
mean by listening to every word I say ?” 

‘‘ I didn’t listen — I heard,” said Lottie. 
‘‘I always do hear when you say your 
words as if they had little dashes under 
them.” 

‘‘Well, Horace Thorne is easier to 
get omwith than his cousin,” said Mrs. 
Blake, taking no notice of Lottie’s mim- 
icry. 

" There, I said so : mamma would like 
it to be Horace. Nobody asks what I 
should like — nobody thinks about me and 
Percival.” 

‘‘Oh, indeed! I wasn’t aware,” said 
Mrs. Blake. ‘‘When is that to come 
off? I dare say you will look very well 
in orange-blossoms and a pinafore !” 

‘‘Oh, you think I’m too young, do 
you? But a little while ago you were 


always. saying that I was grown up, and 
oughtn’t to want any more childish games. 
What was I to do ?” 

” Upon my word !” exclaimed Mrs. 
Blake. "I’ll buy you a doll for a birth- 
day present, to keep you out of mis- 
chief.” 

"Too late,” said Lottie from the rug. 
She burst into sudden laughter, loud but 
not unmelodious. " What rubbish we are 
talking ! Seventeen to-morrow, and Ad- 
die is nearly twenty; and sometimes 1 
think I must be a hundred !” 

" Well, you are talking nonsense now,” 
Mrs. Blake exclaimed. " Why, you baby ! 
only last November you would go into 
that wet meadow by the rectory to play 
trap-and-ball with Robin and Jack. And 
such a fuss as there was if one wanted 
to make you the least tidy and respect- 
able !” 

" Was that last November ?” Lottie 
stared thoughtfully into space. “ Queei 
that last November should be so many 
years ago, isn’t it? Poor little Cock 
Robin ! I met him in the lane the day 
before he went away. They will keep 
him in jackets, and he hates them so! 
I laughed at him, and told him to be a 
good little boy and mind his book. He 
didn’t seem to like it, somehow.” 

" I dare say he didn’t,” said Addie, 
who had been silently recovering her- 
self : "there’s no mistake about it when 
you laugh at any one.” 

“ There shall be no mistake about any- 
thing I do,” Lottie asserted. “ I’m going 
to bed now.” She sprang to her feet and 
stood looking at her sister : “ What jolly 
hair you’ve got, Addie !” 

“Yours is just as thick, or thicker,” said 
Addie. 

" Each individual hair is a good deal 
thicker, if you mean that. ‘ Blue-black, 
lustrous, thick like horse-hairs !’ That’s 
what Percy quoted to me one day when 
I was grumbling, and I said I wasn’t sure 
he wasn’t rude. Addie, are Horace and 
Percival fond of each other ?” 

" How can I tell ? I suppose so.” 

" I have my doubts,” said Lottie sage- 
ly. “ Why should they be ? There must 
be something queer, you know, or why 
doesn’t that stupid old man at Bracken- 


14 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


hill treat Percival as the eldest Well, 
good-nijht." And Lottie went off, half 
saying, half singing, “Who killed Cock 
Robin? I, said the Sparrow — with my 
bow and arrow.” And with a triumphant 
outburst of “/ killed Cock Robin !” she 
banged the door after her. 

There was a pause. Then Addie said, 
“ Seventeen to-morrow ! Mamma, Lot- 
tie really is grown-up now.” 

“Is she?” Mrs. Blake replied doubt- 
fully. “Time she should be. I’m sure.” 

Lottie had been a sore trial to her 
mother. Addie was pretty as a child, 
tolerably presentable even at her most 
awkward age, glided gradually into girl- 
hood and beauty, and finally “came 
out ” completely to Mrs. Blake’s satis- 
faction. But Lottie at fifteen or sixteen 
was her despair — “ Exactly like a great 
unruly boy,” she lamented. She dash- 
ed through her lessons fairly well, but 
the moment she was released she was 
unendurable. She whistled, she sang at 
the top of her voice, and plunged about 
the house in her thick boots, till she 
could be off to join the two boys at the 
rectory, her dear friends and comrades. 
Robin Wingfield, the elder, was her ju- 
nior by rather more than a year; and 
this advantage, especially as she was tall 
and strong for her age. enabled her fully 
to hold her own with them. Nor could 
Mrs. Blake hinder this friendship, as she 
would gladly have done, for her husband 
was on Lottie’s side. 

“Let the girl alone,” he said. “Too 
big for this sort of thing ? Rubbish ! 
The milliner’s bills will come in quite 
soon enough. And what’s amiss with 
Robin and Jack ? Good boys as boys 
go, and she’s another; and if they like 
to scramble over hedges and ditches to- 
gether, let them. For Heaven’s sake, 
Caroline, don’t attempt to keep her at 
home : she’ll certainly drive me crazy 
if you do. No one ever banged doors 
as Lottie does ; she ought to patent the 
process. Slams them with a crash which 
jars the whole house, and yet manages 
not to latch them, and the moment she 
is gone they are swinging backward and 
forward till I’m almost out of my senses. 
Here she comes down stairs, like a thun- 


derbolt. — Lottie, my dear girl, I’m sure 
it’s going to be fine : better run out and 
look up those Wingfield boys, I think.” 

So the trio spent long half-holidays 
rambling in the fields ; and on these oc- 
casions Lottie might be met, an immense 
distance from home, in the shabbiest 
clothes and wearing a red cap of Rob- 
in’s tossed carelessly on her dark hair. 
Percival once encountered them on one 
of these expeditions. Lottie’s beauty 
was still pale and unripe, like those 
sheathed buds which will come sudden- 
ly to their glory of blossom, not like 
rosebuds which have a loveliness of 
their own ; but the young man was 
struck by the boyish mixture of shyness 
and bluntness with which she greeted 
him, and attracted by the great eyes 
which gazed at him from under Robin’s 
shabby cap. When he and Horace went 
to the Blakes’ he amused himself idly 
enough with the school-girl, while his 
cousin flirted with Addie. He laughed 
one day when Mrs. Blake was unusual- 
ly troubled about Lottie’s apparel, and 
said som’ething about “a sweet neglect.” 
But the soul of Lottie’s mamma was not 
to be comforted with scraps of poetry. 
How could it be, when she had just ar- 
raigned her daughter on the charge of 
having her pockets bulging hideously, 
and had discovered that those recepta- 
cles overflowed with a miscellaneous as- 
sortment of odds and ends, the accumu- 
lations of weeks, tending to show that 
Lottie and Cock Robin, as she called 
him, had all things in common ? How 
could it be, when Lottie was always out- 
growing her garments in the most un- 
gainly manner, so that her sleeves seem- 
ed to retreat in horror from her wrists 
and from her long hands, tanned by sun 
and wind, seamed with bramble-scratches 
and smeared with school-room ink ? Once 
Lottie came home with an unmistakable 
black eye, for which Robin’s cricket-ball 
was accountable. Then, indeed, Mrs. 
Blake felt that her cup of bitterness was 
full to overflowing, though Lottie did as- 
sure herj “You should have seen Jack’s 
eye last April : his was much more swol- 
len, and all sorts of colors, than mine.” 
It was impossible to avoid the conclusion 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


that Jack must have been, to say the least 
of it, unpleasant to look at. Percival 
happened to come to the house just then, 
and was tranquilly amused at the good 
lady’s despair. It was before the Blakes 
knew much of Horace, and she had not 
yet discovered that Percival’s cousin was 
so much more friendly than Percival him- 
self; so she made the latter her confidant. 
He recommended a raw beefsteak with 
a gravity worthy of a Spanish grandee. 
He was not allowed to see Lottie, who 
was kept in seclusion as being half cul- 
prit, half invalid, and wholly unpresent- 
able ; but as he was going away the 
servant gave him a little note in Lottie’s 
boyish scrawl : 

" Dear Percival : Mamma was cross 
with Robin and sent him away do tell 
him I’m all right, and he is not to mind 
he will be sure to be about somewhere It 
is very stupid being shut up here Addie 
says she can’t go running about giving 
messages to boys and Papa said if he 
saw him he should certainly punch his 
head so please tell him he is not to both- 
er himself about me I shall soon be all 
right.” 

Percival went away, smiling a little at 
his letter and at Lottie herself. Just as 
he reached the first of the fields which 
were the short cut from the house, he 
spied Robin lurking on the other side 
of the hedge, with Jack at his heels. He 
halted, and called ” Robin ! Robin Wing- 
field ! I want to speak to you.” 

The boy hesitated : “ There’s a gate 
farther on.” 

Coming to the gate, Percival rested his 
arms on it and looked at Robin. The 
boy was not big for his age, but there 
was a good deal of cleverness in his up- 
turned freckled face. “I’ve a message' 
for you,” said the young man. 

“From her?” Robin indicated the 
Blakes’ house with a jerk of his head. 

“Yes. She asked me to tell you that 
she is all right, though, of course, she 
can’t come out at present. She made 
sure I should find you somewhere about.” 

Robin nodded : ” I did try to hear how 
she was, but that old dragon — ” 

” Meaning my friend Mrs. Blake ?” said 


15 

young Thorne. “Ah! Hardly civil per- 
haps, but forcible.” 

“Well — Mrs. Blake, then — caught me 
in the shrubbery and pitched into me. 
Said I ought to be ashamed of myself. 
Supposed I should be satisfied when I’d 
broken Lottie’s neck. Told me I’d bet- 
ter not show my face there again.” 

“Well,” said Percival, “you couldn’t 
expect Mrs. Blake to be particularly de- 
lighted with your afternoon’s work. And, 
Wingfield, though I was especially to tell 
you that you were not to vex yourself 
about it, you really ought to be more 
careful. Knocking a young lady’s eye 
l^lf out — ” 

“Young lady!” in a tone of intense 
scorn. “Lottie isn’t 2l yotmg lady." 

“Oh ! isn’t she?” said Percival. 

“ I should think not, indeed !” And 
Robin eyed the big young man who was 
laughing at him as if he meditated wip- 
ing out the insult to Lottie then and there. 
But even with Jack, his sturdy satellite, 
to help, it was not to be thought of. 
“She’s a brick !” said Cock Robin, half 
to himself. 

“No doubt,” said Percival. “But, as 
I was saying, it isn’t exactly the way to 
treat her. — At least — I don’t know : upon 
my word, I don’t know,” he soliloquized. 
“Judging by most women’s novels, from 
Jane Eyre downward, the taste for mus- 
cular bullies prevails. Robin may be the 
coming hero — who knows ? — and court- 
ship commencing with a black eye the 
future fashion. — Well, Robin, any an- 
swer ?” 

“Tell her I hope she’ll soon be all 
right. Shall you see her?” 

“ I can see that she gets any message 
you want to send.” 

Robin groped among his treasures: 
“ Look here : I brought away her knife 
that afternoon. She lent it me. She’d 
better have it — it's got four blades — she 
may want it, perhaps.” 

Percival dropped the formidable in- 
strument carelessly into his pocket : 
“ She shall have it. And, Robin, you’d 
better not be hanging about here : Lottie 
says so. You’ll only vex Mrs. Blake.” 

“All right I” said the boy, and went off, 
with Jack after him. 


i6 


^^FOR PERCIVALR 


Percival, who was staying in the neigh- 
borhood, went straight home, tied up a 
parcel of books he thought might amuse 
Lottie in her imprisonment, and wrote a 
note to go with them. He was whistling 
softly to himself as he wrote, and, if the 
truth be told, had a fair vision floating 
before his eyes — a girl of whom Lottie 
had reminded him by sheer force of con- 
trast. Still, he liked Lottie in her way. 
He was young enough to enjoy the easy 
sense of patronage and superiority which 
made the words flow so pleasantly from 
his pen. Never had Lottie seemed to 
him so utterly a child as immediately 
after his talk with her boy-friend. 

“Here are some books,” said the hur- 
rying pen, “which I think you will like 
if your eye is not so bad as to prevent 
your reading. Robin was keeping his 
disconsolate watch close by, as you fore- 
told, and asked anxiously after you, so I 
gave him your message and dismissed 
him. He especially charged me to send 
you the enclosed — knife I believe he call- 
ed it : it looks to me like a whole armory 
of deadly weapons — which he seemed to 
think would be a comfort to you in your 
affliction. I sincerely hope it may prove 
so. I was very civil to him, remember- 
ing that I was your ambassador ; but if 
he isn’t a little less rough with you in 
future, I shall be tempted to adopt Mr. 
Blake’s plan if I happen to meet your 
friend again. You really mustn’t let him 
damage those eyes of yours in this reck- 
less fashion. Mrs. Blake was nearly 
heartbroken this morning.” 

He sent his parcel off, and speedily 
ceased to think of it. And Lottie her- 
self might have done the same, not car- 
ing much for his books, but for four little 
words — “ those eyes of yours.” Had Per- 
cival written “your eyes,” it would have 
meant nothing, but “those eyes of yours ” 
implied notice — nay, admiration. Again 
and again she looked at the thick paper, 
with the crest at the top and the vigorous 
lines of writing below ; and again and 
again the four words, “those eyes of 
yours,” seemed to spring into ever-clear- 
er prominence. She hid the letter away 
with a sudden comprehension of the 
roughness of her pencil scrawl which it 


answered, and began to take pride in 
her looks when they least deserved it. 
Only a day or two before she had envied 
Robin the possession of sight a little keen- 
er than her own, but now she smiled to 
think that Percival Thorne would never 
have regretted injury to “those eyes of 
yours” had she owned Robin’s light- 
gray orbs. 

Her transformation had begun. The 
knife was still a treasure, but she was 
ashamed of her delight in it. She 
breathed on the shining blades and rub- 
bed them to brightness again, but she 
did it stealthily, with a glance over her 
shoulder first. She went rambling with 
Robin and Jack, but not when she knew 
that Percival Thorne was in the neigh- 
borhood. She was very sure of his ab- 
sence on the November day to which 
her mother had alluded, when she had 
insisted on playing trap-and-ball in the 
rectory meadows. Mrs. Blake did not 
realize it, but it was almost the last day 
of Lottie’s old life. At Christmas-time 
they were asked to stay for a few days 
at a friend’s house. There was to be a 
dance, and the hostess, being Lottie’s 
godmother, pointedly included her in 
the invitation ; so Mrs. Blake and Addie 
did what they could to improve their 
black sheep’s appearance. 

Lottie, dressed for the eventful even- 
ing, was left alone for a moment before 
the three went down. She felt shy, dis- 
pirited and sullen. Her ball-dress en- 
cumbered and constrained her. “ I hate 
it all,” she said to herself, beating im- 
patiently with her foot upon the ground. 
Something moving caught her eye : it 
was her reflection in a mirror. She 
paused and gazed in wonder. Was this 
slender girl, arrayed in a cloud of semi- 
transparent white, really herself — the Lot- 
tie who only a few days before had raced 
Robin Wingfield home across the fields, 
had been the first over the gap and 
through the ditch into the rectory mead- 
ow, and had rushed away with the No- 
vember rain-drops driving in her face ? 
She gazed on : the transformation had its 
charms, after all. But the shadow came 
back : “ It’s no use. Addie’s prettier than 
I ever shall be : I must be second all my 


*^FOR percival: 


17 


life. Second ! If I can’t be A i, I’d as 
soon be Z 1000 ! I won’t go about to be 
a foil to her. I’d ten times rather race 
with Robin ; and I will too ! They sha’n’t 
coop me up and make a young lady of 
me !” 

She caught the flash of her indignant 
glance in the glass and paused. 

“ Those eyes of yours /" 

Must she be second all her life ? Had 
she not a power and witchery of her own ? 
Might she not even distance Addie in the 
race ? “ I’ve more brains than she has,” 
mused Lottie. 

Her heart was beating fast as they came 
down stairs. They had only arrived by 
a late train, which gave them just time 
to dress ; and Mrs. Blake had rather ex- 
ceeded the allowance, so that most of 
the guests had arrived and the first 
quadrille was nearly ended as they came 
in. Lottie followed her mother and Ad- 
die as they glided through the crowd, 
and when they paused she stood shy and 
fierce, casting lowering glances around. 

She heard their hostess say to some 
one, ‘‘ Do let me find you a partner.” 

A well-known voice replied, ‘‘ Not this 
time, thank you : I’m going to try to find 
one for myself;” and Percival stood be- 
fore her, looking, to her girlish fancy, 
more of a hero than ever in the evening- 
dress which became him well. The per- 
fectly-fitting gloves, the flower in his coat, 
a dozen little things which she could not 
define, made her feel uncouth and anx- 
ious, fascinated and frightened, all at once. 
Had he greeted her in the patronizing way 
in which he had talked to her of old, she 
would have been deeply wounded, but he 
asked her for the next dance more cere- 
moniously, she knew, than Horace would 
have asked Addie. Still, she trembled 
as they moved off. They had scarcely 
met since her note to him. Suppose he 
alluded to it, asked after her black eye, 
and inquired whether she had derived 
any benefit from the beefsteak ? Noth- 
ing more natural, and yet if he did Lottie 
felt that she should hate him. ” I know 
I should do something dreadful,” she 
thought — “scratch his face, and then 
burst out crying, most likely. Oh, what 
would become of me ? I should be 
2 


ruined for life ! I should have to shut 
myself up, never see any one again, and 
emigrate with Robin directly he was old 
enough.” 

Percival did not know his danger, but 
he escaped it. The fatal thoughts were 
in his mind while Lottie was planning 
her disgrace and exile, but he merely 
remarked that he liked the first waltz, 
and should they start at once or wait a 
moment till a couple or two dropped 
out? 

“ I don’t know whether I can waltz,” 
said Lottie doubtfully. 

“Weren’t you over tortured with dan- 
cing-lessons ?” 

“ Oh yes. But I’ve never tried at a 
party. Suppose we go bumping up against 
everybody, like that fat man and the lit- 
tle lady in pink — the two who are just 
stopping?” 

“ I assure you,” said Percival gravely, 
“ that I do not dance at all like that fat 
man. And if you dance like the lady in 
pink, I shall be more surprised than I 
have words to say. Now ?” 

They were off. Percival knew that he 
waltzed well, and had an idea that Lot- 
tie would prove a good partner. Nor 
was he mistaken. She had been fairly 
taught, much against her will, had a good 
ear for time, and, thanks to many a race 
with Robin Wingfield, her energy was 
almost terrible. They spun swiftly and 
silently round, unwearied while other 
couples dropped out of the ranks to rest 
and talk. Percival was well pleased. It 
is true that he had memories of waltzes 
with Sissy Langton of more utter har- 
mony, of sweeter grace, of delight more 
perfect, though far more fleeting. But 
Lottie, with her steady swiftness and her 
strong young life, had a charm of her 
own which he was not slow to recognize. 
She would hardly have thanked him for 
accurately classifying it, for as she danced 
she felt that she had discovered a new 
joy. Her old life slipped from her like 
a husk. Friendship with Cock Robin 
was an evident absurdity. It is true she 
was angry with herself that, after fighting 
so passionately for freedom, she should 
voluntarily bend her proud neck beneath 
the yoke. She foresaw that her mother 


i8 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


and Addie would triumph ; she felt that 
her bondage to Mrs. Grundy would often 
be irksome ; but here was the first instal- 
ment of her wages in this long waltz with 
Percival. She fancied that the secret of 
her pleasure lay in the two words — “with 
Percival.” In her ignorance she thought 
that she was tasting the honeyed fire of 
love, when in truth it was the sweetness 
of conscious success. Before the last 
notes of that enchanted music died away 
she had cast her girlish devotion, “ half 
in a rapture and half in a rage,” at her 
partner’s feet, while he stood beside her 
calm and self-possessed. He would 
have been astounded, and perhaps al- 
most disgusted, had he known what was 
passing through her mind. 

Love at sixteen is generally only a de- 
sire to be in love, and seeks not so much 
a fit as a possible object. Probably Lot- 
tie’s passion offered as many assurances 
of domestic bliss as could be desired at 
her age. 

Percival was dark, foreign-looking and 
handsome : he had an interesting air of 
reserve, and no apparent need to prac- 
tise small economies. His clothes fitted 
him extremely well, and at times he had 
a way of standing proudly aloof which 
was worthy of any hero of romance. No 
settled occupation would interfere with 
picnics and balls ; and, to crown all, had 
he not said to her, “Those eyes of yours” ? 
Were not these ample foundations for 
the happiness of thirty or forty years of 
marriage ? 

Percival, meanwhile, wanted to be 
kind to the childish, half-tamed Lottie, 
who had attracted his notice in the fields 
and trusted him with her generous mes- 
sage to Robin Wingfield. The girl fan- 
cied herself immensely improved by her 
white dress, but had Thorne been a 
painter he would have sketched her as 
a pale vision of Liberty, with loosely- 
knotted hair and dark eyes glowing un- 
der Robin’s red cap. He was able cool- 
ly to determine the precise nature of his 
pleasure in her society, but he knew that 
it was a pleasure. And Lottie, when she 
fell asleep that night, clasped a card which 
was rendered priceless by the frequent 
recurrence of his initials. 


Her passion transformed her. Her 
vehement spirit remained, but every- 
thing else was changed. Her old dreams 
and longings were cast out by the new. 
She laughed with Mrs. Blake and Addie, 
but under the laughter she hid her love, 
and cherished it in fierce and solitary 
silence. Yet even to herself the trans- 
formation seemed so wonderful that she 
could hardly believe in it, and acted the 
rough girl now and then with the idea 
that otherwise they must think her a 
consummate actress morning, noon and 
night. For some months no great event 
marked the record of her unsuspected 
passion. It might, perhaps, have run its 
course, and died out harmlessly in due 
time, but for an unlucky afternoon, about 
a week before her birthday, when Perci- 
val uttered some thoughtless words which 
woke a tempest of doubt and fear in Lot- 
tie’s heart. She did not question his love, 
but she caught a glimpse of his pride, and 
felt as if a gulf had opened between her 
and her dream of happiness. 

Percival was calling at the house on 
the eventful day which was destined to 
influence Lottie’s fate and his own. He 
was in a happy mood, well pleased with 
things in general, and, after his own fash- 
ion, inclined to be talkative. When vis- 
itors arrived and Addie exclaimed, “Mrs. 
Pickering andthatboy of hers — oh both- 
er!” she spoke the feelings of the whole 
party ; and Percival from his place by 
the window looked across at Lottie and 
shrugged his shoulders expressively. 
Had there been time he would have 
tried to escape into the garden with his 
girl friend; but as that was impossible, 
he resigned himself to his fate and lis- 
tened while Mrs. Pickering poured forth 
her rapture concerning her son’s pros- 
pects to Mrs. Blake. An uncle who was 
the head of a great London firm had of- 
fered the young man a situation, with an 
implied promise of a share in the business 
later. “Such a subject for congratula- 
tion !” the good lady exclaimed, beam- 
ing on her son, who sat silently turning 
his hat in his hands and looking very 
pink. “ Such an opening for William ! 
Better than having a fortune Ipft him, I 
call it, for it is such a thing to have an oc- 


^^FOR percival: 


19 


cupation. Every young man should be 
brought up to something, in my opinion.” 

Mrs. Blake, with a half glance at Ad- 
die and a thought of Horace, suggested 
that heirs to landed estates — 

‘‘Well, yes.” Mrs. Pickering agreed 
with her. Country gentlemen often found 
so much to do in looking after their ten- 
ants and making improvements that she 
would not say anything about them. But 
young men with small incomes and no 
profession — she should be sorry if a son 
of hers — 

‘‘ Like me, for instance,” said Percival, 
looking up. ‘‘ I’ve a small income and 
no profession.” 

Mrs. Pickering, somewhat confused, 
hastened to explain that she meant no- 
thing personal. 

‘‘Of course not,” he said: ‘‘I know 
that. I only mentioned it because I 
think an illustration stamps a thing on 
people’s memories.” 

‘‘ But, Percival,” Mrs. Blake interposed, 
‘‘ I must say that in this I agree with Mrs. 
Pickering. I do think it would be better 
if you had something to do — I do indeed.” 
She looked at him with an air of affection- 
ate severity. ‘‘I speak as your friend, 
you know.” (Percival bowed his grat- 
itude.) ‘‘I really think young people 
are happier when they have a settled 
occupation.” 

‘‘ I dare say that is true, as a rule,” he 
said. 

‘‘ But you don’t think you would be ?” 
questioned Lottie. * 

He turned to her with a smile : ‘‘Well, 
I doubt it. Of course I don’t know how 
happy I might be if I had been brought 
up to a profession.” He glanced through 
the open window at the warm loveliness 
of June. ‘‘ At this moment, for instance, 
I might have been writing a sermon or 
cutting off a man’s leg. But, somehow, 
I am very well satisfied as I am.” 

‘‘Oh, if you mean to make fun of it — ” 
Mrs. Blake began. 

‘‘But I don’t,” Percival said quickly. 
‘‘ I may laugh, but I’m in earnest too. I 
have plenty to eat and drink ; I can pay 
my tailor and still have a little money in 
my pocket ; I am my own master. Some- 
times I ride — another man’s horse: if 


not I walk, and am just as well content. 
I don’t smoke — I don’t bet — I have no 
expensive tastes. What could money do 
for me that I should spend the best years 
of my life in slaving for it?” 

‘‘That may be all very well for the 
present,” said Mrs. Blake. 

‘‘ Why not for the future too ? Oh, I 
have my dream for the future too.” 

‘‘And, pray, may one ask what it is ?” 
said Mrs. Pickering, looking down on 
him from the height of William’s pros- 
perity. 

‘‘Certainly,” he said. ‘‘Some day I 
shall leave England and travel leisurely 
about the Continent. I shall have a sky 
over my head compared with which this 
blue is misty and pale. I shall gain new 
ideas. I shall get grapes and figs and 
melons very cheap. There will be a 
little too much garlic in my daily life — 
even such a destiny as mine must have 
its drawbacks — but think of the won- 
derful scenery I shall see and the queer, 
beautiful out-of-the-way holes and cor- 
ners I shall discover ! And in years to 
come I shall rejoice, without envy, to 
hear that Mr. Blake has bought a large 
estate and gains prizes for fat cattle, 
while my friend here has been knight- 
ed on the occasion of some city dem- 
onstration.” 

Young Pickering, who had been lis- 
tening open-mouthed to the other’s flu- 
ent and tranquil speech, reddened at the 
allusion to himself and dropped his hat. 

‘‘At that rate you must never marry,” 
said Mrs. Blake. 

Percival thoughtfully stroked his lip : 
‘‘You think I should not find a wife to 
share my enjoyment of a small income ?” 

‘‘Marry a girl with lots of money, Mr. 
Thorne,” said the future Sir William, 
feeling it incumbent on him to take part 
in the conversation. 

‘‘Not I.” Percival’s glance made the 
lad’s hot face yet hotter. ‘‘That’s the 
last thing I will do. If a man means to 
work, he may marry whom he will. But 
if he has made up his mind to be idle, he 
is a contemptible cur if he will let his 
wife keep him in his idleness.” He spoke 
very quietly in his soft voice, and leaned 
back in his chair. 


20 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


“Well, then, you must never fall in 
love with an heiress,” said Mrs. Blake. 

“Or you must work and win her,” Lot- 
tie suggested almost in a whisper. 

He smiled, but slightly shook his head 
w’ith a look which she fancied meant 
“Too late.” Mrs. Pickering began to 
tell the latest Fordborough scandal, and 
the talk drifted into another channel. 

Lottie had listened as she always lis- 
tened when Percival spoke, but she had 
not attached any peculiar meaning to 
his words. But an hour or so later, when 
he was gone and she was loitering in the 
garden just outside the window, Addie, 
who was within, made some remark in 
a laughing tone. Lottie did not catch 
the words, but Mrs. Blake’s reply was dis- 
tinct and not to be mistaken : “William 
Pickering, indeed ! No : with your looks 
and your expectations you girls ought to 
marry really well.” Lottie stood aghast. 
They would have money, then ? She 
had never thought about money. She 
would be an heiress ? And Percival 
would never marry an heiress — he 
could not: had he not said so? How 
gladly would she have given him every 
farthing she possessed ! And was her 
fortune to be a barrier between them for 
ever ? Every syllable that he had spo- 
ken was made clear by this revelation, 
and rose up before her eyes as a terrible 
word of doom. But she was not one to 
be easily dismayed, and her first cry was, 
“What shall I do?” Lottie’s thoughts 
turned always to action, not to endur- 
ance, and she was resolved to break 
down the barrier, let the cost be what 
it might. Her talk with Godfrey Ham- 
mond gave a new interest to her romance 
and new strength to her determination. 
Since her hero was disinherited and poor, 
and she, though rich, would be poor in 
all she cared to have if she were part- 
ed from him, might she not tell him so 
when she saw him on her birthday ? She 
thought it would be easier to speak on 
the one day when in girlish fashion she 
would be queen. She would not think 
of her own pride, because his pride was 
dear to her. She could not tell what she 
would say or do : she only knew that her 
birthday should decide her fate. And 


her heart was beating fast in hope and 
fear the night before when she banged 
the door after her and went off to bed, 
sublimely ready to renounce the world 
for Percival. 


CHAPTER III. 

DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES — ALFRED 
THORNE’S IS TOLD BY THE WRITER. 

Mr. Thorne of Brackenhill was a 
miserable man, who went through the 
world with a morbidly sensitive spot in 
his nature. A touch on it was torture, 
and unfortunately the circumstances of 
his daily life continually chafed it. 

It was only a common form of selfish- 
ness carried to excess. “I don’t want 
much,” he would have said — truly 
enough, for Godfrey Thorne had never 
been grasping — “but let it be my own.” 
He could not enjoy anything unless he 
knew that he might waste it if he liked. 
The highest good, fettered by any con- 
dition, was in his eyes no good at all. 
Brackenhill was dear to him because he 
could leave it to whom he would. He 
was seventy-six, and had spent his life 
in improving his estate, but he prized 
nothing about it so much as his right to 
give the result of his life’s work to the 
first beggar he might chance to meet. 
It would have made him still happier if 
he could have had the power of destroy- 
ing Brackenhill utterly, of wiping it off 
the face of the earth, in case he could 
not find an heir who pleased him, for it 
troubled him to think that some man 
inust have the land after him, whether 
he wished it or not. 

Godfrey Hammond had declared that 
no one could conceive the exquisite tor- 
ments Mr. Thorne would endure if he 
owned an estate with a magnificent ruin 
on it, some unique and priceless relic of 
bygone days. “He should be able to 
see it from his window,” said Hammond, 
“ and it should be his, as far as law could 
make it, while he should be continually 
conscious that in the eyes of all cultivated 
men he was merely its guardian. Peo- 
ple should write to the newspapers as- 
serting boldly that the public had a right 


^^FOR PERCIVAL. 


21 


of free access to it, and old gentlemen 
with antiquarian tastes should find a lit- 
tle gap in a fence, and pen indignant 
appeals to the editor demanding to be 
immediately informed whether a mon- 
ument of national, nay, of world -wide 
interest, ought not, for the sake of the 
public, to be more carefully protected 
from injury. Local archseological soci- 
eties should come and read papers in it. 
Clergymen, wishing to combine a little 
instruction with the pleasures of a school- 
feast, should arrive with van - loads of 
cheering boys and girls, a troop of ardent 
teachers, many calico flags and a brass 
band. Artists, keen - eyed and pictu- 
resque, each with his good-humored air 
of possessing the place so much more 
truly than any mere country gentleman 
ever could, should come to gaze and 
sketch. Meanwhile, Thorne should re- 
mark about twice a week that of course 
he could pull the whole thing down if he 
liked ; to which every one should smile 
assent, recognizing an evident but utter- 
ly unimportant fact. And then,” said 
Hammond solemnly, "when all the ar- 
chaeologists were eating and drinking, 
enjoying their own theories and picking 
holes in their neighbors’ discoveries, the 
bolt should fall in the shape of an an- 
nouncement that Mr. Thorne had sold 
the stones as building materials, and that 
the workmen had already removed the 
most ancient and interesting part. After 
which he would go slowly to his grave, 
dying of his triumph and a broken heart.” 

It was all quite true, though Godfrey 
Hammond might have added that all 
the execrations of the antiquarians would 
hardly have added to the burden of shame 
and remorse of which Mr. Thorne would 
have felt the weight before the last cart 
carried away its load from the trampled 
sward ; that he would have regretted his 
decision every hour of his life ; and if by 
a miracle he could have found himself 
once more with the fatal deed undone, 
he would have rejoiced for a moment, 
suffered his old torment for a little while, 
and then proceeded to do it again. 

For a great part of Mr. Thorne’s life 
the boast of his power over Brackenhill 
had been on his lips more frequently 


than the twice a week of which Ham- 
mond talked. Of late years it had not 
been so. He had used his power to as- 
sure himself that he possessed it, and 
gradually awoke to the consciousness 
that he had lost it by thus using it. 

He had had three sons — Maurice, a 
fine, high-spirited young fellow ; Alfred, 
good - looking and good - tempered, but 
indolent ; James, a slim, sickly lad, who 
inherited from his mother a fatal tend- 
ency to decline. She died while he 
was a baby, and he was petted from that 
time forward. Godfrey Thorne was well 
satisfied with Maurice, but was always at 
war with his second son, who would not 
take orders and hold the family living. 
They argued the matter till it was too 
late for Alfred to go into the army, the 
only career for which he had expressed 
any desire ; and then Mr. Thorne found 
himself face to face with a gentle and 
lazy resistance which threatened to be a 
match for his own hard obstinacy. Alfred 
didn’t mind being a farmer. But his fa- 
ther was troubled about the necessary 
capital, and doubted his son’s success: 
‘‘You will go on after a fashion for a few 
years, and then all the money will have 
slipped through your fingers. You know 
nothing of farming.” — ‘‘That’s true,” 
said Alfred. — ‘‘And you are much too 
lazy to learn.” — ‘‘That’s very likely,” 
said the young man. So Mr. Thorne 
looked about him for some more eligible 
opening for his troublesome son ; and 
Alfred meanwhile, with his handsome 
face and honest smile, was busy mak- 
ing love to Sarah Percival, the rector’s 
daughter. 

The little idyl was the talk of the vil- 
lagers before it came to the squire’s ears. 
When he questioned Alfred the young 
man confessed it readily enough. He 
loved Miss Percival, and she didn’t mind 
waiting. Mr. Thorne was not altogether 
displeased, for, though his intercourse 
with the rector was rather stormy and 
uncertain, they happened to be on toler- 
able terms just then. Sarah was an only 
child, and would have a little money at 
Mr. Percival’s death, and Alfred was 
much more submissive a,nd anxious to 
please his father under these altered cir- 


22 


*'FOR PERCIVALF 


cumstances. The young people were 
not to consider themselves engaged, Miss 
Percival being only eighteen and Alfred 
one-and-twenty. But if they were of the 
same mind later, when the latter should 
be in a position to marry, it was under- 
stood that neither his father nor Mr. Per- 
cival would oppose it. 

Unluckily, a parochial question arose 
near Christmas-time, and the squire and 
the clergyman took different views of it. 
Mr. Thorne went about the house with 
brows like a thunder-cloud, and never 
opened his lips to Alfred except to abuse 
the rector. “You’ll have to choose be- 
tween old Percival and me one of these 
days,’’ he said more than once. “You’d 
better be making up your mind : it will 
save time.’’ Alfred was silent. When 
the strife was at its height Maurice was 
drowned while skating. 

The poor fellow was hardly in his 
grave before the storm burst on Alfred’s 
head. If Mr. Thorne had barely toler- 
ated the idea of his son’s marriage be- 
fore, he found it utterly intolerable now ; 
and the decree went forth that this boy- 
ish folly about Miss Percival must be for- 
gotten. “ I can do as I like with Brack- 
enhill,’’ said Mr. Thorne: “remember 
that.’’ Alfred did remember it. He had 
heard it often enough, and his father’s 
angry eyes gave it an added emphasis. 
“ i can make an eldest son of James if I 
like, and I will if you defy me.” But 
nothing could shake Alfred. He had 
given his word to Miss Percival, and they 
loved each other, and he meant to keep 
to it. “You don’t believe me,” his fa- 
ther thundered : “ you think I may talk, 
but that I sha’n’t do it. Take care !” 
There was no trace of any conflict on 
Alfred’s face : he looked a little dull and 
heavy under the bitter storm, but that 
\vas all. “I can’t help it, sir,” he said, 
tracing the pattern of the carpet with 
the toe of his boot as he stood: “you 
will do as you please, I suppose.” — “ I 
suppose I shall,” said Mr. Thorne. 

So Alfred was disinherited. “ As well 
for this as anything else,” he said: “we 
couldn’t have got on long.” He had an 
allowance from his father, who declined 
to take any further interest in his plans. 


He went abroad for a couple of years — • 
a test which Mr. Percival imposed upon 
him that nothing might be done in haste 
— and came back, faithful as he went, 
to ask for the consent which could no 
longer be denied. Mr. Percival had 
been presented to a living at some dis- 
tance from Brackenhill, and, as there 
was a good deal of glebe-land attached 
to it, Alfred was able to try his hand at 
farming. He did so, with a little loss if 
no gain, and they made one household 
at the rectory. 

He never seemed to regret Bracken- 
hill. Sarah — dark, ardent, intense, a 
strange contrast to his own fair, hand- 
some face and placid indolence — absorb- 
ed all his love. Her eager nature could 
not rouse him to battle with the world, 
but it woke a passionate devotion in his 
heart : they were everything to each oth- 
er, and were content. When their boy 
was born the rector would have named 
him Godfrey : at any rate, he urged them 
to call him by one of the 'old family 
names which had been borne by bygone 
generations of Thornes. But the young 
husband was resolved that the child 
should be Percival, and Percival only. 
“Why prejudice his grandfather against 
him for a mere name ?” the rector per- 
sisted. But Alfred shook his head. “ Per- 
cival means all the happiness of my life,” 
he said. So the child received his name, 
and the fact was announced to Mr. Thorne 
in a letter brief and to the point like a 
challenge. 

Communications with Brackenhill were 
few and far between. From the local 
papers Alfred heard of the rejoicings 
when James came of age, quickly follow- 
ed by the announcement that he had 
gone abroad for the winter. Then he 
was at home again, and going to marry 
Miss Harriet Benham ; whereat Alfred 
smiled a little. “The governor must 
have put his pride in his pocket : old 
Benham made his money out of com- 
posite candles, then retired, and has gas 
all over the house for fear they should 
be mentioned. Harry, as we used to 
call her, is the youngest of them — she 
must be eight or nine and twenty ; fine 
girl, hunts — tried it on with poor Maurice 


^^FOR FERCIVALr 


23 


asies ago. I should think she was about 
half as big again as Jim. Well, yes, 
perhaps I am exaggerating a little. How 
charmed my father must be ! — only, of 
course, anything to please Jim, and it’s 
a fine thing to have him married and 
settled.” 

Alfred read his father’s feelings cor- 
rectly enough, but Mr. Thorne was al- 
most repaid for all he had endured when, 
in his turn, he was able to write and an- 
nounce the birth of a boy for whom the 
bells had been set ringing as the heir 
of Brackenhill. Jim, with his sick fan- 
cies and querulous conceit, Mrs. James 
Thorne, with her coarsely-colored splen- 
dor and imperious ways, faded into the 
background now that Horace’s little star 
had risen. 

The rest may be briefly told. Horace 
had a little sister who died, and he him- 
self could hardly remember his father. 
His time was divided between his moth- 
er’s house at Brighton and Brackenhill. 
He grew slim and tall and handsome — 
a Thorne, and not a Benham, as his 
grandfather did not fail to note. He was 
delicate. ‘‘But he will outgrow that,” 
said Mrs. Middleton, and loved him the 
better for the care she had to take of 
him. ' It was principally for his sake that 
she was there. She was a widow and 
had no children of her own, but when, 
at her brother’s request, she came to 
Brackenhill to make more of a home for 
the school-boy, she brought with her a 
tiny girl, little Sissy Langton, a great- 
niece of her husband’s. 

Meanwhile, the other boy grew up in 
his quiet home, but death came there as 
well as to Brackenhill, and seemed to 
take the mainspring of the household in 
taking Sarah Thorne. Her father pined 
for her, and had no pleasure in life ex- 
cept in her child. Even when the old 
man was growing feeble, and it was man- 
ifest to all but the boy that he would not 
long be parted from his daughter, it was 
a sombre but not an unhappy home for 
the child. Something in the shadow 
which overhung it, in his grandfather’s 
weakness and his father’s silence, made 
him grave and reserved, but he always 
felt that he was loved. No playful home- 


name was ever bestowed on the little lad, 
but it did not matter, for when spoken by 
Alfred Thorne no name could be so ten- 
der as Percival. 

The rector’s death when the boy was 
fifteen broke up the only real home he 
was destined to know, for Alfred was 
unable to settle down in any place for 
any length of time. While his wife and 
her father were alive their influence over 
him was supreme : he was like the needle 
drawn aside by a powerful attraction. 
But now that they were gone his thoughts 
oscillated a while, and then reverted to 
Brackenhill. For himself he was con- 
tent — he had made his choice long ago 
— but little by little the idea grew up in 
his mind that Percival was wronged, for 
he, at least, was guiltless. He secretly 
regretted the defiant fashion in which 
his boy had been christened, and made 
a feeble attempt to prove that, after all, 
Percy was an old family name. He 
succeeded in establishing that a ‘‘P. 
Thorne ” had once existed, who of 
course might have been Percy, as he 
might have been Peter or Paul ; and he 
tried to call his son Percy in memory of 
this doubtful namesake. But the three 
syllables were as dear to the boy as the 
white flag to a Bourbon. They identi- 
fied him with the mother he dimly re- 
membered, and proclaimed to all the 
world (that is, to his grandfather) that 
for her sake he counted Brackenhill well 
lost. He triumphed, and his father was 
proud to be defeated. To this day 
he invariably writes himself ‘‘ Percival 
Thorne.” 

Alfred, however, had his way on a 
more important point, and educated his 
son for no profession, because the head 
of the house needed none. Percival ac- 
quiesced willingly enough, without a 
thought of the implied protest. He was 
indolent, and had little or no ambition. 
Since daily bread — and, luckily, rather 
more than daily bread, for he was no 
ascetic — was secured to him, since books 
were many and the world was wide, he 
asked nothing better than to study them. 
He grew up grave, dreamy and some- 
what solitary in his ways. He seemed 
to have inherited something of the rec- 


24 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


tor’s self-possessed and rather formal 
courtesy, and at twenty he looked older 
than his age, though his face was as 
smooth as a girl’s. 

He was not twenty-one when his fa- 
ther died suddenly of fever. When the 
news reached Brackenhill the old squire 
was singularly affected by it. He had 
been accustomed to contrast Alfred’s 
vigorous prime with his own advanced 
age, Percival’s unbroken health with 
Horace’s ailing boyhood, and to think 
mournfully of the probability that the 
old manor-house must go to a stranger 
unless he could humble himself to the 
son who had defied him. But, old as he 
was, he had outlived his son, and he was 
dismayed at his isolation. A whole gen- 
eration was dead and gone, and the two 
lads, who were all that remained of the 
Thornes of Brackenhill, stood far away, as 
though he stretched his trembling hands 
to them across their fathers’ graves. He 
expressly requested that Percival should 
come and see him, and the young man 
presented himself in his deep mourning. 
Sissy, just sixteen, looked upon him as a 
sombre hero of romance, and within two 
days of his coming Mrs. Middleton an- 
nounced that her brother was ‘‘ perfectly 
infatuated about that boy.” 

The evening of his arrival he stood 
with his grandfather on the terrace look- 
ing at the wide prospect which lay at 
their feet — ample fields and meadows, 
and the silvery flash of water through 
the willows. Then he turned, folded 
his arms and coolly surveyed Bracken- 
hill itself from end to end. Mr. Thorne 
watched him, expecting some word, but 
when none came, and Percival’s eyes 
wandered upward to the soft evening 
sky, where a glimmering star hung like 
a lamp above the old gray manor-house, 
he said, with some amusement, ‘‘Well, 
and what is your opinion ?” 

Percival came down to earth with the 
greatest promptitude: ‘‘It’s a beautiful 
place. I’m glad to see it. I like look- 
ing over old houses.” 

‘‘ Like looking over old houses ? As if 
it were merely a show ! Isn’t Bracken- 
hill more to you than any other old 
house ?” demanded Mr. Thorne. 


‘‘Oh, well, perhaps,” Percival allow- 
ed: ‘‘I have heard my father talk of it 
of course.” 

‘‘Come, come! You are not such an 
outsider as all that,” said his grandfather. 

The young man smiled a little, but did 
not speak. 

‘‘You don’t forget you are a Thorne, 

I hope?” the other went on. ‘‘There are 
none too many of us.” 

‘‘ No,” said Percival. ‘‘ I like the old 
house, and I can assure you, sir, that I 
am proud of both my names.” 

‘‘Well, well! very good names. But 
shouldn’t you call a man a lucky fellow 
if he owned a place like this ?” 

‘‘ My opinion wouldn’t be half as well 
worth having as yours,” was the reply. 
‘‘What do you call yourself, sir?” 

‘‘Do you think I own this place?” 
Mr. Thorne inquired. 

‘‘Why, yes — I always supposed so. 
Don’t you?” 

‘‘No, I don’t!” The answer was al- 
most a snarl. ‘‘ I’m bailiff, overlooker, 
anything you like to call it. My master 
is at Oxford, at Christ Church. He won’t 
read, and he can’t row, so he is devoting 
his time to learning how to get rid of the 
money I am to save up for him. / own 
Brackenhill ?” He faced abruptly round. 
‘‘ All that timber is mine, they say ; and 
if I cut down a stick your aunt Middleton 
is at me : ‘ Think of Horace.’ The place 
was mortgaged when I came into it. I 
pinched and saved — I freed it — for Hor- 
ace. Why shouldn’t I mortgage it again 
if I please — raise money and live royally 
till my time comes, eh ? They’d all be 
at me, dinning ‘ Horace ! Horace !’ and 
my duty to those who come after me, 
into my ears. Look at the drawing-room 
furniture !” 

‘‘The prettiest old room I ever saw,” 
said Percival. 

‘‘Ah ! you’re right there. But my sis- 
ter doesn’t think so. It’s shabby, she 
would tell you. But does she ask me to 
furnish it for her ? No, no, it isn’t worth 
while : mine is such a short lease. When 
Horace marries and comes into his in- 
heritance, of course it must be done up. 
It would be a pity to waste money about 
it now, especially as there’s a bit of land 


^*FOR PERCIVALr 


25 


lies between two farms of mine, and if I 
don’t go spending a lot in follies, I can 
buy it. Think of that ! I can buy it — 
for Horace /” 

Percival was guarded in his replies to 
this and similar outbursts ; and Mrs. 
Middleton, seeing that he showed no 
disposition to toady his grandfather or 


to depreciate Horace, told Godfrey Ham- 
mond that, though her brother was so 
absurd about him, she thought he seem- 
ed a good sort of young man, after all. 
"Time will show," was the answer. Now, 
this was depressing, for Godfrey had es- 
tablished a reputation for great sagacity. 



26 


^^FOR PERCIVALr 


CHAPTER IV. 

WISHING WELL AND ILL. 

OTTIE’S 
birthday 
had dawn- 
ed, the fresh 
morning 
hours had 
slipped 
away, the 
sun had de- 
clined from 
his midday 
splendor 
into golden 
afternoon, 
and yet to 
Lottie her- 
self the day 
seemed 
scarcely yet begun. Its crowning delight 
was to be a dance given in her honor, 
and she awaited that dance with feverish 
anxiety. 

It was nearly three o’clock when the 
dog-cart from Brackenhill came swiftly 
along the dusty road. It was nearing its 
destination : already there were distant 
glimpses of Fordborough with its white 
suburban villas. Percival Thorne thor- 
oughly enjoyed the bright June weather, 
the cloudless blue, the clear singing of 
the birds, the whisper of the leaves, the 
universal sweetness from far - off fields 
and blossoms near at hand. He gazed 
at the landscape with eyes that seemed 
to be looking at something far away, and 
yet they were observant enough to note 
a figure crossing a neighboring field. It 
was but a momentary vision, and the ex- 
pression of his face did not vary in the 
slightest degree, but he turned to the 
man at his side and spoke in his leisure- 
ly fashion ; “ I’ll get down here and walk 
the rest of the way. You may take my 
things to Mr. Hardwicke’s.” 

The man took the reins, but he looked 
round in some wonder, as if seeking the 
cause of the order. His curiosity was 


unsatisfied. The slim girlish figure had 
vanished behind a clump of trees, and 
nothing was visible that could in any 
way account for so sudden a change of 
purpose. Glancing back as he drove off, 
he saw only Mr. Percival Thorne, darkly 
conspicuous on the glaring road, stand- 
ing where he had alighted, and apparent- 
ly lost in thought. The roan horse turn- 
ed a corner, the sound of wheels died 
away in the distance, and Percival walk- 
ed a few steps in the direction of Brack- 
enhill, reached a stile, leaned against it 
and waited. 

“Many happy returns of the day to 
you !’’ he said as the girl whom he had 
seen came along the field-path. 

Light leafy shadows wavered on her 
as she walked, and, all unconscious of 
his presence, she was softly whistling an 
old tune. 

The color rushed to her face, and she 
stopped short. “Percival! You here?’’ 
she said. 

“Yes: did I startle you? I was dri- 
ving into the town, and saw you in the 
distance. I could not do less — could I ? 
— than stop then and there to pay my 
respects to the queen of the day. And 
what a glorious day it is !’’ 

Lottie sprang over the stile, and look- 
ed up and down the road. “Oh, you are 
going to walk ?’’ she said. 

“ I’m going to walk — yes. But what 
brings you here wandering about the 
fields to-day ?’’ 

She had recovered her composure, 
and looked up at him with laughing 
eyes: “It is wretched indoors. They 
are so busy fussing over things for to- 
night, you know.’’ 

“Exactly what I thought you would 
be doing too.’’ 

“ I ? Oh, mamma said I wasn’t a bit 
of use, and Addie said that I was more 
than enough to drive Job out of his mind. 
The fact was, I upset one of her flower- 
vases. And afterward — well, afterward 
I broke a big china bowl.’’ 



*^FOR PERCIVALF 


27 


"I begin to understand,” said Percival 
thoughtfully, “ that they might feel able 
to get on without your help.” 

“Yes, perhaps they might. But they 
needn’t have made such a noise about 
the thing, as if nobody could enjoy the 
dance to-night because a china bowl was 
smashed ! Such rubbish ! What could 
it matter ?” 

” Was it something unique ?” , 

“Oh, it was worse than that,” she an- 
swered frankly : “it was one of a set. But 
I don’t see why one can’t be just as hap- 
py without a complete set of everything.” 

" There I agree with you,” he replied. 
“ I certainly can’t say that my happiness 
is bound up with crockery of any kind. 
And, do you know, Lottie, I’m rather 
glad it was one of a set. Otherwise, your 
mother might have known that there was 
something magical about it, but one of a 
set is prosaic — isn’t it ? Suppose it had 
been a case of — 

If this glass doth fall. 

Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall !’* 

“Well, the luck would have been in 
uncommonly little bits,” she replied. “I 
smashed it on a stone step, and they 
were so cross that I was crosser, so I 
said I would come out for a walk.” 

“And do you feel any better ?” he asked 
in an anxious voice. 

“Yes, thank you. Being in the open 
air has done me good.” 

“ Then may I go with you ? Or will 
nothing short of solitude effect a com- 
plete cure ?” 

“You may come,” she said gravely. 
“That is, if you are not afraid of the 
remains of my ill-temper.” 

“No, I’m not afraid. I don’t make 
light of your anger, but I believe I’m 
naturally very brave. Where are we 
going ?” 

She hesitated a moment, then looked 
up at him : “ Percival, isn’t this the way 
to the wishing-well ? Ever since we came 
to Fordborough, three months ago, I’ve 
wanted to go there. Do you know where 
it is ?” 

“Oh yes, I know it. It is about a mile 
from here, or perhaps a little more. That 
won’t be too far for you, will it ?” 

“Too far!” She laughed outright. 


“Why, I could walk ten times as far, 
and dance all night afterward.” 

“Then we’ll go,” said Percival. And, 
crossing the road,, they passed into the 
fields on the opposite side. A pathway, 
too narrow for two to walk abreast, led 
them through a wide sea of corn, where 
the flying breezes were betrayed by del- 
icate tremulous waves. Lottie led the 
way, putting out her hand from time to 
time as she went, and brushing the bloom 
from the softly-sw'aying wheat. She was 
silent. Fate had befriended her strangely 
in this walk. The loneliness of the sun- 
lit fields was far better for her purpose 
than the crowd and laughter of the even- 
ing, but her heart almost failed her, and 
with childish superstition she resolved 
that she would not speak the words which 
trembled on her lips until she and Per- 
cival should have drunk together of the 
wishing-well. He followed her, silent 
too. He was well satisfied to be with 
his beautiful school -girl friend, free to 
speak or hold his peace as he chose. 
Freedom was the great charm of his 
friendship with Lottie — freedom from 
restraint and responsibility. For if Per- 
cival was serenely happy and assured 
on any single point, he was so with re- 
gard to his perfect comprehension of the 
Blakes in general, and Lottie in partic- 
ular. He had some idea of giving his 
cousin Horace a word of warning on 
the subject of Mrs. Blake’s designs. He 
quite understood that good lady’s feel- 
ings concerning himself. “ I’m nobody,” 
he thought. “ I’m not to be thrown over, 
because I introduced Horace to them ; 
besides. I’m an additional link between 
Fordborough and Brackenhill, and Mrs. 
Blake would give her ears to know Aunt 
Middleton. And I am no trouble so long 
as I am satisfied to amuse myself with 
Lottie. In fact, I am rather useful. I 
keep the child out of mischief, and I 
don’t give her black eyes, as that Wing- 
field boy did.” And from this point Per- 
cival would glide into vague speculation 
as to Lottie’s future. He was inclined to 
think that the girl would do something 
and be something when she grew up. 
She was vehement, resolute, ambitious. 
He wondered idly, and a little sentiment- 


28 


FOR PERCIVALF 


ally, whether hereafter, when their paths 
had diverged for ever, she would look 
back kindly to these tranquil days and 
to her old friend Percival. He rather 
thought not. She would have enough 
to occupy her without that. 

It was true, after a fashion, that Lottie 
was ambitious in her dreams of love. 
Her lover must be heroic, handsome, a 
gentleman by birth, with something of 
romance about his story. A noble pov- 
erty might be more fascinating than 
wealth. There was but one thing abso- 
lutely needful : he must not be common- 
place. It was the towering yet unsub- 
stantial ambition of her age, a vision of 
impossible splendor and happiness. Most 
girls have such dreams : most women find 
at six or seven and twenty that their en- 
chanted castles in the air have shrunk to 
brick-and-mortar houses. Tastes change, 
and they might even be somewhat em- 
barrassed were they called on to play 
their parts in the passionate love-poems 
which they dreamed at seventeen. But 
the world was just opening before Lot- 
tie’s eyes, and she was ready to be a 
heroine of romance. 

“This way,’’ said Percival; and they 
turned into a narrow lane, deep and cool, 
with green banks overgrown with ferns, 
and arching boughs above. As they 
strolled along he gathered pale honey- 
suckle blossoms from the hedge, and 
gave them to Lottie. 

“ How pretty it is !’’ said^the girl, look- 
ing round. 

“Wait till you see the well,” he re- 
plied. “We shall be there directly : it 
is prettier there.’’ 

“ But this is pretty too : why should I 
wait ?’’ said Lottie. 

“ You are right. I don’t know why you 
should. Admire both ; you are wiser 
than I, Lottie.’’ 

As he spoke, the lane widened into a 
grassy glade, and Lottie quickened her 
steps, uttering a cry of pleasure. Per- 
cival followed her with a smile on his 
lips. “ Here is your wishing-well,’’ he 
said. “ Do you like it, now that you have 
found it out ?’’ 

She might well have been satisfied, 
even if she had been harder to please. 


It was a spring of the fairest water, bub 
bling into a tiny hollow. The little pool 
was like a brimming cup, with colored 
pebbles and dancing sand at the bottom, 
and delicate leaf-sprays clustered lightly 
round its rim. And this gem of spark- 
ling water was set in a space of mossy 
sward, with trees which leant and whis- 
pered overhead, their quivering canopy 
pierced here and there by golden shafts 
of sunlight and glimpses of far-off blue. 

“ It is like fairy-land,’’ said Lottie. 

“ Or like something in Keats’s poems,’’ 
Percival suggested. 

“ I never read a line of them, so I 
can’t say,’’ she answered with defiant 
candor, while she inwardly resolved to 
get the book. 

He smiled: “You don’t read much 
poetry yet, do you ? Ah, well, you have 
time enough. How about wishing, now 
we are here?’’ he went on, stooping to 
look into the well. “ Your wishes ought 
to have a double virtue on your birth- 
day.’’ 

“I only hope they may.’’ 

“ What ! have you decided on some- 
thing very important? Seventeen to- 
day! Lottie, don’t wish to be eighteen : 
that will come much too soon without 
wishing.’’ 

“ I don’t want to be eighteen. I think 
seventeen is old enough,’’ she answered 
dreamily, 

“So do 1.’’ He was thinking, as he 
spoke, what a charming childish age it 
was, and how, before he knew Lottie, he 
had fancied from books that girls were 
grown up at seventeen. 

“Now I am going to wish,’’ she said 
seriously, “ and you must wish after me.’’ 
Bending over the pool, she looked earn- 
estly into it, took water in the hollow of 
her hand and drank. Then, standing 
back, she made a sign to her companion. 

He stepped forward, and saying, with 
a bright glance, “ My wishes must be for 
you to-day. Queen Lottie,’’ he followed 
her example. But when he looked up, 
shaking the cold drops from his hand, he 
was struck by the intense expression on 
her downward-bent face. “What has 
the child been wishing?’’ he wondered; 
and an idea flashed suddenly into his 


*^FOR PERCIVAL. 


U 


mind which almost made him smile. 

By Jove ! ” he said to himself, “ there 
will be a fiery passion one of these fine 
days, when Lottie falls in love." But 
even as he thought this the look which 
had startled him was gone. 

"We needn’t go back directly, need 
we? ".she said. "Let us rest a little 
while." 

"By all means," Percival replied. "I’m 
quite ready to rest as long as you like : 
I consider resting my strong point. What 
do you say to this bank ? Or there is a 
fallen tree just across there ?" 

"No. Percival, listen ! There are some 
horrid people coming: let us go on a 
little farther, out of their way." 

He listened : " Yes, there are some 
people coming. Very likely they are hor- 
rid, though we have no fact to go upon 
except their desire to find the wishing- 
well : at any rate, we don’t want them. 
Lottie, you are right: let us fly." 

They escaped from the glade at the 
farther end, passed through a gate into 
a field, and found themselves once more 
in the broad sunlight. They paused for 
a moment, dazzled and uncertain which 
way to go. " Why did those people come 
and turn us out?" said Thorne regret- 
fqlly. A shrill scream of laughter rang 
through the shade which they had just 
left. "What shall we do now ?’’ 

" I don’t mind : I like this sunshine,” 
said Lottie. “ Percival, don’t you think 
there would be a view up there ?" 

"Up there” was a grassy little emi- 
nence which rose rather abruptly in the 
midst of the neighboring fields. It was 
parted from the place where they stood 
by a couple of meadows. 

" I should think there might be.” 

" Then let us go there. When I see a 
hill I always feel as if I must get to the 
top of it." 

" I’ve no objection to that feeling in the 
present case, as the hill happens to be a 
very little one,” Percival replied. "And 
the shepherds and shepherdesses in our 
Arcadia are unpleasantly noisy. But I 
don’t see any gate into the next field." 

" Who wants a gate ? There’s a gap 
by that old stump.” 

"And you don’t mind this ditch? It 


29 

isn’t very wide," he said as he stood on 
the bank. 

"No, I don’t mind it." 

He held out his hand: she laid hers 
on it and sprang lightly across, with a 
word of thanks. A few months earlier 
she would have scorned Cock Robin’s 
assistance had the ditch been twice as 
wide, as that day she would have scorned 
any assistance but Percival’s. It was well 
that she did not need help, for his out- 
stretched hand, firm as it was, gave her 
little. It rather sent a tremulous thrill 
through her as she touched it that was 
more likely to make her falter than suc- 
ceed. She was not vexed that he re- 
lapsed into silence as they went on their 
way. In her eyes his aspect was darkly 
thoughtful and heroic. As she walked 
by his side the low grass-fields became 
enchanted meads and the poor little 
flowers bloomed like poets’ asphodel. A 
lark sang overhead as never bird sang 
before, and the breeze was sweet with 
memories of blossom. When they stood 
on the summit of the little hill the view 
was fair as Paradise. A big gray stone 
lay among the tufts of bracken, as if a 
giant hand had tossed it there in sport. 
Lottie sat down, leaning against it, and 
Percival threw himself on the grass at 
her feet. 

She was nerving herself to overcome ' 
an unwonted feeling of timidity. She 
had dreamed of this birthday with child- 
ish eagerness. Her fancy had made it 
the portal of a world of unknown de- 
lights. She grew sick with fear, lest 
through her weakness or any mischance 
the golden hours should glide by, and 
no golden joy be secured before the 
night came on. Golden hours ? Were 
they not rather golden moments on the 
hillside with Percival? He loved her — 
she was sure of that — but he was poor, 
and would never speak. What could she 
say to him ? She bent forward a little 
that she might see him better as he lay 
stretched on the warm turf unconscious 
of her eyes. Through his half-closed 
lids he watched the little gray-blue but- 
terflies which flickered round him in the 
sunny air, emerging from or melting into 
the eternal vault of blue. 


30 


*^F0R PERCIVALF 


“ Percival !” 

She had spoken, and ended the long 
silence. She almost fancied that her 
voice shook and sounded strange, but 
he did not seem to notice it. 

“Yes ?’’ he said, and turned his face to 
her — the face that was the whole world 
to Lottie. 

“Percival, is it true that your father 
was the eldest son, and that you ought 
to be the heir?” 

He opened his eyes a little at the 
breathless question. Then he laughed : 
“ 1 might have known that you could not 
live three months in Fordborough with- 
out hearing something of that.” 

“ It is true, then ? Mayn’t I know .?” 

“Certainly.” He raised himself on 
his elbow. “But there is no injustice in 
the matter, Lottie. The eldest son died, 
and my father was the second. He want- 
ed to have his own way, as we most of 
us do, and he gave up his expectations 
and had it. He did it with his eyes 
open, and it was a fair bargain.” 

“ He sold his birthright, like Esau ? 
Well, that might be quite right for him, 
but isn’t it rather hard on you ?” 

“Not at all.” he answered promptly. 
“ I never counted on it, and therefore 
I am not disappointed. Why should I 
complain of not having what I did not 
expect to have ? Shall I feel very hard- 
ly used when the archbishopric of Can- 
terbury falls vacant and they pass me 
over ?” 

“But your father shouldn’t have given 
up your rights,” the girl persisted. 

“Why, Lottie,” he said with a smile, 
“it was before I was born! And I’m 
not so sure about my rights. I don’t 
know that I have any particular rights 
or wrongs.” There was a pause, and 
then he looked up. “ Suppose the birth- 
right had been Jacob’s, and he had thrown 
it away for Rachel’s sake: would you 
have blamed him ?” 

“No,” said Lottie, with kindling eyes. 

“ Then Jacob and Rachel’s son is not 
hardly used, and has no cause to com- 
plain of his lot,” Percival concluded, 
sinking back lazily. 

Lottie was silent for a moment. Then 
she apparently changed the subject: 


“ Do you remember that day Mrs. Pick- 
ering called and talked about William?” 

“ Oh yes, I remember. I scandalized 
the old lady, didn’t I ? Lottie, I’m half 
afraid I scandalized your mother into the 
bargain.” 

“I’ve been thinking about what you 
said,” Lottie went on very seriously — 
“about being idle all your life.” 

“Ah !” said Percival, drawing a long 
breath. “ You are going to lecture me ? 
Well, I don’t know why I should be sur- 
prised. Every one lectures me : they 
don’t like it, but feel it to be their duty. 
I dare say Addie will begin this even- 
ing.” He was amused at the idea of 
a reproof from Lottie, and settled |his 
smooth cheek comfortably on his sleeve 
that he might listen at his ease. “Go 
on,” he said: “it’s very kind of you, 
and I’m quite ready.” 

“Suppose I’m not going to lecture 
you,” said Lottie. 

“ Why, that’s still kinder. What then ?” 

“Suppose 1 think you are right.” 

“ Do you ?” 

“Yes,” she answered simply. “Wil- 
liam Pickering may spend his life scra- 
ping pounds and pence together. Men 
who can’t do anything else may as well 
do that, for it is nice to be rich. But if 
you have enough, why should you spend 
your time over it — the best years of your 
life which will never come back ?” 

“Never!” said Percival. “You are 
right.” 

There was a long pause. Lottie pull- 
ed a bit of fern, and looked at him again. 
There was a line between his dark brows, 
as if he were pursuing some thought 
which her words had suggested, but he 
held his head down and was silent. She 
threw the fern away and pressed her 
hands together : “ But, Percival, you do 
care for money, after all. You set it 
above everything else, as they all do, 
only in a different way. You are right 
in what you say, but they are more hon- 
est, for they say and do alike.” 

“ Do I care for money ? Lottie, it’s 
the first time I have ever been charged 
with that.” 

“ Because you talk as if you didn’t. 
But you do. Why did you say you 


**FOR PERCIVALF 


31 


would never marry an heiress ? The 
color went right up to the roots of your 
hair when they talked about it, and you 
said it would be contemptible : that was 
the word — contemptible. Then I sup- 
pose if you cared for her, and she loved 
you with all her heart and soul, you 
would go away and leave her to hate 
the world and herself and you,* just 
because she happened to have a little 
money. And you say you don’t care 
about it !” 

“ Lottie, you doix’t know what you are 
talking about.” His eyes were fixed on 
the turf. She had called up a vision in 
which she had no part. “You don’t un- 
derstand,” he began. 

“ It is you who don’t understand,” she 
answered desperately. “You men judge 
girls — I don’t know how you judge them 
— not by themselves: by their worldly- 
wise mammas, perhaps. Do you fancy 
we are always counting what money men 
have or what we have ? It’s you who 
think so much about it. Oh, Percival !” 
the strong voice softened to sudden ten- 
derness, “do you think I care a straw 
about what I shall have one day ?” 

“Good God !” Percival looked up, and 
for the space of a lightning flash their eyes 
met. In hers he read enough to show 
him how blind he had been. In his she 
read astonishment, horror, repulsion. 

Repulsion she read it, but it was not 
there. To her dying day Lottie will be- 
lieve that she saw it in his eyes. Did 
she not feel an icy stab of pain when she 
recognized it ? Never was she more sure 
of her own existence than she was sure 
of this. And yet it was not there. She 
had suddenly roused him from a dream, 
and he was bewildered, shocked — sorry 
for his girl-friend, and bitterly remorse- 
ful for himself. 

Lottie knew that she had made a ter- 
rible mistake, and that Percival did not 
love her. There was a rushing as of 
water in her ears, a black mist swaying 
before her eyes. But in a moment all 
that was over, and she could look round 
again. The sunlit world glared horribly, 
as if it understood and pressed round her 
with a million ^yes to mock her burning 
shame. 


“No, I never thought you cared for 
money,” said Percival, trying to seem 
unconscious of that lightning glance with 
all its revelations. He had not the rest- 
less fingers so many men have, and 
could sit contentedly without moving a 
muscle. But now he was plucking ner- 
vously at the turf as he spoke. 

“What does it matter?” said Lottie. 
“ I shall come to care for it one of these 
days, I dare say.” 

He did not answer. What could he 
say? He was cursing his blind folly. 
Poor child ! Why, she was only a child, 
after all — a beautiful, headstrong, wilful 
child, and it was not a year since he met 
her in the woods with torn frock and 
tangled hair, her long hands bleeding 
from bramble -scratches and her lips 
stained with autumn berries. How fierce- 
ly and shyly she looked at him with her 
shining eyes ! He remembered how she 
stopped abruptly in her talk and answer- 
ed him in monosyllables, and how, when 
he left the trio, the clear, boyish voice 
broke instantly into a flood of happy 
speech. As he lay there now, staring at 
the turf, he could see his red-capped vis- 
ion of Liberty as plainly as if he stood on 
the woodland walk again with the Sep- 
tember leaves above him. He felt a rush 
of tender, brotherly pity for the poor mis- 
taken child — “brotherly” in default of a 
better word. Probably a brother would 
have been more keenly alive to the for- 
ward folly of Lottie’s conduct. Percival 
would have liked to hold out his hand to 
the girl, to close it round hers in a tight 
grasp of fellowship and sympathy, and 
convey to her, in some better way than 
the clumsy utterance of words, that he 
asked her pardon for the wrong he had 
unconsciously done her, and besought 
her to be his friend and comrade for 
ever. But he could not do anything of 
the kind : he dared not even look up, 
lest a glance should scorch her as she 
quivered in her humiliation. He ended 
as he began, by cursing the serene cer- 
tainty that all was so harmless and so 
perfectly understood, which had blinded 
his eyes and brought him to this. 

And Lottie? She hardly knew what 
she thought. A wild dream of a desert 


32 


^^FOR percival: 


island in tropic seas, with palms tower- I dashing on the coral shore, and herself 
ing in the hot air and snow-white surf I and Cock Robin parted from all the 



world by endless leagues of ocean, flit- 
ted before her eyes. But that was im- 
possible, absurd. 


JFe was laughing at her, no doubt- 
scorning her in his heart, Oh, why had 
she been so mad ? Suppose a thunder- 


FOR THE SPACE OF A LIGHTNING FLASH THEIR EVES MET.” — Page 3 1. 



^*FOR PERCIVALF 


33 


bolt were to fall from the blue sky and 
crush him into eternal silence as he lay 
at her feet pulling his little blades of 
grass ? No ! Lottie did not wish that : 
the thought was hideous. Yet had not 
such a wish had a momentary life as she 
stared at the hot blue sky ? Was it writ- 
ten there, or wandering in the air, or 
uttered in the busy humming of the flies, 
so that as she gazed and listened she be- 
came conscious of its purport ? Surely 
she never wished it. Why could not the 
gray rock against which she leaned tot- 
ter and fall and bury her for ever, hid- 
ing her body from sight while her spirit 
fled from Percival? Yet even that was 
not enough : they might meet in some 
hereafter. Lottie longed for annihilation 
in that moment of despair. 

This could not last. It passed, as the 
first faintness had done, and with an ach- 
ing sense of shame and soreness (almost 
worse to bear because there was no exal- 
tation in it) she came back to every-day 
lifp. She pushed her hair from her fore- 
head and got up. ” I suppose you are not 
going to stay here all day ?” she said. 

Percival stretched himself with an air 
of indolent carelessness : “ No, I suppose 
not. Do you think duty calls us to go 
back at once?” 

‘‘ It is getting late,” was her curt reply ; 
and he rose without another word. 

She was grave and quiet : if anything, 
she was more self-possessed than he was, 
only she never looked at him. Perhaps 
if he could have made her understand 
what was in his heart when first he real- 
ized the meaning of her hasty words, she 
might have grasped the friendly hand he 
longed to hold out to her. But not now. 
Her face had hardened strangely, as if it 
were cut in stone. They went down the 
hill in silence, Percival appearing great- 
ly interested in the landscape. As they 
crossed the level meadows Lottie looked 
round with a queer fancy that she might 
meet the other Lottie there, the girl who 
had crossed them an hour before. At 
the ditch Thorne held out his hand 
again. She half turned, looked straight 
into his eyes with a passionate glance of 
hatred, and sprang across, leaving him 
to follow. 

3 


He rejoined her as she reached the 
glade. While they had been on the hill 
the sun had sunk below the arching 
boughs, and half the beauty of the scene 
was gone. The noisy picnic party had 
unpacked their hampers, the turf was 
littered with paper and straw, and a 
driver stood in a central position, with 
his head thrown back, drinking beer 
from a bottle. Lottie went straight to . 
the well and took another draught. 

‘‘Two wishes in one day?” said Per- 
cival. 

‘‘Second thoughts are best,” she an- 
swered, turning coldly away. ‘‘ Is there 
no other way home ? I hate walking the 
same way twice.” 

‘‘There is the road: I’m afraid it may 
be hot, but it would be a change.” 

‘‘ I should prefer the road,” she said. 

That walk seemed interminable to Per- 
cival Thorne. He was ready to believe 
that the road lengthened itself, in sheer 
spite, to leagues of arid dust, and that ev- 
ery familiar landmark fled before him. 
At last, however, they approached a point 
where two ways diverged — the one lead- 
ing straight into the old town, while the 
other, wide and trimly kept, passed be- 
tween many bright new villas and gar- 
dens. At that corner they might part. 
But before they reached it a slim, gray- 
clad figure appeared from the suburban 
road and strolled leisurely toward them. 
Percival looked, looked again, shaded his 
eyes and looked. ‘‘Why, it’s Horace!” 
he exclaimed. 

Lottie made no reply, but she awoke 
from her sullen musing, a light flashed 
into her eyes, and she quickened her 
pace toward the man who should deliv- 
er her from her tete-a-tHe with Percival. 


CHAPTER V. 

WHY NOT LOTTIE? 

Percival advanced to meet his cousin. 
‘‘You here, Horace ?” he said. 

‘‘ So it seems,” the other replied, in a 
voice which sounded exactly as if Perci- 
val had answered his own question. 

The two young men were wonderfully 
alike, though hardly one person in a hun- 


34 


*^FOR PERCIVAL?^ 


dred could see it. They were exactly the 
same height, their features were similar, 
they walked across the room in precisely 
the same way, and unconsciously repro- 
duced each other’s tricks of manner with 
singular fidelity. Yet any remark on this 
resemblance would almost certainly en- 
counter a wondering stare, and “ Oh, do 
you think so ? Well, I must confess I 
can’t see much likeness myself;” the fact 
being that the similarity was in form and 
gait, while both color and expression dif- 
fered greatly. Horace’s hair had the 
same strong waves as Percival’s, but it 
was chestnut-brown, his eyes were a 
clear light gray, his complexion showed 
a fatal delicacy of white and red. His 
expression was rdore varying, his smile 
was readier and his glance more restless. 

He had once taken a college friend, 
whose hobby was photography, to Brack- 
enhill. Young Felton arrived with all his 
apparatus, and photographed the whole 
household with such inordinate demands 
on their time, and such atrocious results, 
that every one fled from him in horror. 
Horace was the most patient of his vic- 
tims, and Felton declared that he wottld 
have a good one of Thorne. But even 
Horace was tired out at last, and said 
very mildly that he didn’t particularly 
care for the smell of the stuff, and he 
was afraid his portraits wouldn’t help 
him to a situation if ever he wanted 
one — apply, stating terms and enclos- 
ing carte ; that he thought it uncom- 
monly kind of Felton to take so much 
trouble, but if ever he let him try again, 
he’d be — Sissy was there, and the sen- 
tence, which had been said over his 
shoulder as he leaned out of the win- 
dow, ended in a puff of smoke up into 
the blue. Felton begged for one more, 
and persuaded Sissy to be his advocate. 
" I’ve an idea that something will come 
of it,” said the hapless photographer. 
Horace yielded at last, and sat down, 
grimly resolute that he would yield no 
more. Something did come of it. Fel- 
ton got it very much too dark, and the 
result was a tolerable photograph and a 
startling likeness of Percival. 

The incident caused some little amuse- 
ment at Brackenhill, and visitors were 


duly puzzled with the portrait. But it 
was not long remembered, and people 
dropped into their former habit of think- 
ing that there was but a slight resem- 
blance between the cousins. Only, Per- 
cival carried off the photograph, and was 
interested for a week or two in questions 
of doubtful identity, looking up a few old 
cases of mysterious claimants, and specu- 
lating as to the value of the testimony for 
and against them. 

Horace shook hands with Lottie, and 
uttered his neatly-worded birthday wishes. 
Her answer was indistinctly murmured, 
but she looked up at him, and he paused, 
struck as by something novel and splen- 
did, when he encountered the dark fire 
of her eyes. ” I left them wondering 
what had become of you,” he said. 
” They thought you were wandering 
about alone somewhere, and had lost 
yourself.” 

” Instead of which we met on the road, 
didn’t we ?” said Percival. 

“Yes,” she answered indifferently. — 
“And you came to look for me?*’ 

" Of course. I was on my way to hunt 
up the town-crier and to make our loss 
known to the police. In half an hour’s 
time we should have been dragging all 
the ponds.” 

” I think I’d better go and set mam- 
ma’s anxious mind at rest,” said Lottie 
with a short laugh. ‘‘ Good-bye for the 
present.” She was gone in a moment, 
leaving the young men standing in the 
middle of the road. Horace made a 
movement as if to follow her, then 
checked himself and looked at his 
cousin. 

Percival made haste to speak : So 
you have come down for the birthday- 
party, too ? Where are you staying ?” 

“Oh, the Blakes find me a bed. I’m 
off again to-morrow morning.” 

“You are now at Scarborough with my 
aunt ? I have it on Sissy’s authority.” 

“There’s no occasion to disturb that 
faith,” said Horace lightly. “Are you 
going into the town ? I’ll walk a little 
way with you.” 

“You are not going to see them at 
Brackenhill before you leave ?” 

Horace shook his head : “Say nothing 


*^FOR PERCIVALF 


35 


about me. Did you tell them where you 
were going?” 

‘‘No. I don’t suppose they know of 
the Blakes’ existence.” 

‘‘ So much the better. I'm not going 
to enlighten them.” 

They strolled on side by side, and for 
a minute neither spoke. Horace was 
chafing because it had occurred, to him 
that afternoon that Mrs. Blake seemed 
rather to take his devotion to Addie for 
granted. His path was made too smooth 
and obvious, and it was evident that the 
prize might be had for the asking. Con- 
sequently, Master Horace, who was not 
at all sure that he wanted it, was irritable 
and inclined to swerve aside. 

‘‘Are not you playing a dangerous 
game T' said Percival. ‘‘ Sooner or later 
some one will mention the fact of these 
visits to the squire, and there’ll be a 
row.” 

‘‘ Well, then, there must be a row. It’s 
uncommonly hard if I’m never to speak 
to any one without going to Brackenhill 
first .to ask leave,” said Horace discon- 
tentedly. ‘‘ How should you like it your- 
self?” 

‘‘ Not at all.” 

‘‘No more do I. I’m tired of being in 
leading-strings, and the long and short 
of it is that I mean to have my own way 
in this, at any rate.” 

‘‘In this? Is this a matter of great 
importance, then ? Horace, mind what 
you are after with the Blakes.” 

‘‘You’re a nice consistent sort of fel- 
low,” said Horace. 

‘‘ Oh, you may call me what you like,” 
Percival replied. 

‘‘Who introduced me to these people 
before they came to Fordborough ? Who 
comes down to Brackenhill — the dullest 
hole, now there’s no shooting — because 
it’s Lottie Blake’s birthday ? Whose 
name is a sort of household word here 
— Percival this and Percival that ? Per- 
cival without any Thorne to it, mind.” 

‘‘ I plead guilty. What then ?” 

‘‘What then ? Why, I wish you to re- 
mark that this is your example, while 
your precept is — ” 

‘‘Take care what you are about with 
the Blakes. Yes, old fellow, you’d bet- 


ter leave my example alone, and stick 
to the precept. My wisdom takes that 
form, I admit.” He spoke with more 
meaning than Horace perceived. 

‘‘ Well, thanks for your advice,” said 
the young man with a laugh. ‘‘Though 
I can’t see any particular harm in my 
coming down to-day.” 

‘‘ No harm. Only remember that there 
is such a place as Brackenhill.” 

‘‘The governor oughtn’t to find fault 
with me, since you’re in the same boat. 
He never thinks you can do wrong.” 

‘‘ Never.” 

‘‘You’re a lucky fellow to have only 
yourself to please.” 

‘‘Very lucky,” said Percival dryly. 
‘‘Will you change places with me?” 

‘‘ Change places ? What do you mean ?” 

The other looked fixedly at him, and 
said in a pointed manner, ‘‘I fancy it 
might easily be managed — with Addie 
Blake’s help.” 

The suggestion was unpleasant. Hor- 
ace winced, and vented his displeasure 
in a random attack: ‘‘And why Addie, 
I should like to know ? How can you 
tell it is Addie at all?” 

‘‘Who, then?” 

‘‘Why not Lottie?” The words were 
uttered without a moment’s thought, and 
might have been forgotten as soon as 
said. But Percival was taken by sur- 
prise, and a look of utter incredulity 
flashed across his face. Horace caught 
it and was piqued. ‘‘ Unless you under- 
stand her so well that you are sure that 
no one else has a chance. Of course, if 
that is the case — ” 

‘‘ Not at all,” Percival exclaimed. ‘‘ It’s 
not for me to pretend to understand Lot- 
tie : I’m not such a fool as that.” 

‘‘All the same,” Horace said to him- 
self, ‘‘ you think you understand her bet- 
ter than I do, and you don’t believe I 
should have a chance if I tried to cut 
you out. Well, Mr. Percy, you may be 
right, but, on the other hand, you may 
be mistaken.” And, as he walked back 
to the Blakes, Horace hurriedly resolved 
to teach his cousin that he was not to 
consider Lottie his exclusive property. 
He knew the folly of such a proceeding, 
but who was ever hindered from obeying 


36 


^^FOR PERCJVALF 


the dictates of wounded vanity by the 
certainty that he had much better not ? 

Percival sincerely wished the evening 
over. He dared not stay away, lest his 
absence should provoke comment, but 
he feared some childish outbreak of pet- 
ulance on Lottie’s part. When he saw 
her he was startled by her beauty. Her 
cheeks were flushed and her eyes were 
full of brilliant meaning. She cast a de- 
fiant glance at him as she went by. She 
was burning with shame, and madden- 
ed by the cruel injustice of her fate. A 
white light seemed to have poured in 
upon her, and she found it incredible 
that she could ever have felt or acted as 
she had felt and acted that afternoon. 
She said to herself that she might as 
well have been punished for her con- 
duct in a dream. 

Percival plucked up courage enough 
to go and ask her to dance. He was 
distressed and pitiful, and longing to 
make amends, and stood before her like 
the humblest of suitors. She assented 
coolly enough. No one saw that there 
was anything amiss, though he was quick 
to remark that she gave him only square 
dances. No more waltzes with Lottie for 
him. But Horace had one, and when it 
was over he leaned almost exhausted 
against the wall, while Lottie stood by 
hjs side and fanned herself. The fan 
seemed to throb in unison with her 
strong pulses, quickened by the dance 
and slackening as she rested. 

“That was splendid,” said Horace 
with breathless brevity. “ Best waltz I 
ever had.” 

“Ah!” said Lottie, turning toward 
him. “Suppose Addie heard that, Mr. 
Thorne ?” 

They looked straight into each other’s 
eyes, and Horace felt a strange thrill run 
through him. He evaded her question 
with a laugh. “Why do you call me Mr. 
Thorne?” he asked. “If you call that 
fellow by his Christian name, why not 
me ? Mine isn’t such a mouthful as Per- 
cival : try it.” 

“We knew him first, you see,” Lottie 
replied with much innocence. 

“As if that had anything to do with 
it ! If you had known my grandfather 


first, I suppose you would have called 
him Godfrey?” 

“ Perhaps he w’ouldn’t have asked me,” 
said Lottie. 

Horace smiled: “Well, perhaps he 
wouldn’t. He isn’t much given to mak- 
ing such requests, certainly. But I do 
ask you. Look!” he exclaimed, with 
sudden -animation, “there’s Mrs. Blake 
taking that dried-up little woman — what 
is her name ? — to the piano. I may have 
the next dance, I hope.” 

“ How many more things are you going 
to ask for all at once ?” The bright fan 
kept up its regular come and go, and 
Lottie’s eyes were very arch above it. 
“I’m sure you don’t take after your 
grandfather.” 

“Believe me,” said Horace, “you 
would be awfully bored if I did. But 
you haven’t given me an answer. This 
dance ?”• 

“I’ve promised it to Mr. Hardwicke. 
Adieu, Horace r And before he could 
utter a syllable she was across the room, 
standing by the little spinster who was 
going to play, and helping her to undo 
a clashing bracelet of malachite and sil- 
ver which hung on her bony wrist. 

Horace, gazing after her, felt a hand 
on his shoulder and looked round. 

“I’m off when this dance is over,” 
said Percival, who seemed weary and 
depressed. “You still wish me not to 
say that I have seen you ?” 

Horace nodded: “I shall be at Scar- 
borough again to-morrow night. There’s 
no occasion to say anything.” 

“All right. You know best.” 

“Who can tell what may happen?” 
said Horace. “Why should one be in 
a hurry to do anything unpleasant ? Put 
it off, and you may escape it altogether. 
For instance, the governor may change 
all at once, as people do in tracts and 
Christmas books. I don’t say it’s likely, 
but I feel that I ought to give him the 
chance.” 

“Very good,” said Percival; and he 
strolled away. Horace noted his pre- 
occupied look with a half smile, but after 
a moment his thoughts and eyes went 
back to Lottie Blake, and he forgot all 
about his cousin and Brackenhill. 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


37 


CHAPTER VI. 

HER NAME. 

Most country towns have some great 
event which marks the year, or some pe- 
culiarity which distinguishes them from 
their neighbors. This one has its annual 
ball, that its races, another its volunteer 
reviews. One seems to relish no amuse- 
ment which has not a semi -religious 
flavor, and excels in school-feasts, choir- 
festivals, and bazaars. Some places only 
wake up on the fifth of November, and 
some are devoted to amateur theatricals. 
Fordborough had its agricultural show. 

Crowds flocked to it, not because they 
cared for fat cattle, steam ploughs and 
big vegetables, but because everybody 
was to be seen there. You stared at the 
prize pig side by side with the head of 
one of the great county families, who 
had a faint idea that he had been intro- 
duced to you somewhere (was it at the 
last election ?), and politely entered into 
conversation with you on the chance. 
You might perhaps suspect that his re- 
membrance of you was not very clear, 
when you reflected afterward that he 

Asked after my wife, who is dead, 

And my children, who never were born ; 

but at any rate he meant to be civil, and 
people who saw you talking together 
would 'not know what he said. Or you 
might find the old friend you had not 
seen for years, gold eye-glass in hand, 
peering at a plate of potatoes. Or you 
were young, and there was a girl — no, 
the girl, the one girl in all the world — 
bewitchingly dressed, a miracle of beau- 
ty, looking at Jones’s patent root-pulper. 
You lived for months on the remem- 
brance of the words you exchanged by a 
friendly though rather deafening thresh- 
ing-machine when her mamma (who 
never liked you) marched serenely on, 
unconscious that Edith was lingering 
behind. Then there was the flower- 
show, where a band from the nearest 
garrison town played the last new 
waltzes, and people walked about and 
looked at everything except the flowers. 
Fordborough was decked with flags and 
garlands, and appropriate sentiments on 
the subject of agriculture, in evergreen 
letters stitched on calico, were lavishly 


displayed. Every one who possessed 
anything beyond a wheelbarrow got into 
it and drove about, the bells clashed 
wildly in the steeple, and everything was 
exceedingly merry — if it didn’t rain. 

People in that part of the world always 
filled their houses with guests when the 
time for the show came round. Even at 
Brackenhill, though the squire said he 
was too old for visitors, he made a point 
of inviting Godfrey Hammond, while 
Mrs. Middleton, as soon as the day was 
fixed, sent off a little note to Horace. It 
was taken for granted that Horace would 
come. Aunt Harriet considered his in- 
variable presence with them on that 
occasion as a public acknowledgment 
of his position at Brackenhill. But the 
day was gone by when Mr. Thorne de- 
lighted to parade his grandson round 
the field, showing off the slim handsome 
lad, and proving to the county that with 
his heir by his side he could defy the 
son who had defied him. Matters were 
changed since then. The county had, 
as it were, accepted Horace. The quar- 
rel was five - and - twenty years old, and 
had lost its savor. It was tacitly assumed 
that Alfred had in some undefined way 
behaved very badly, that he had been 
very properly put on one side, and that 
in the natural course of things Horace 
would succeed his grandfather, and was 
a nice, gentlemanly young fellow. Mr. 
Thorne had only to stick to what he had 
done to ensure the approval of society. 

But people did not want, and did not 
understand, the foreign -looking young 
man with the olive complexion and som- 
bre eyes who had begun of late years to 
come and go about Brackenhill, and who 
was said to be able to turn old Thorne 
round his finger. This was not mere 
rumor. The squire’s own sister com- 
plained of his infatuation. It is true that 
she also declared that she believed the 
newcomer to be a very good young fel- 
low, but the complaint was accepted and 
the addition smiled away. “ It is easy to 
see what her good young man wants 
there,” said her friends ; and there was 
a general impression that it was a shame. 
Opinions concerning the probable result 
varied, and people offered airily to bet on 


38 


'^FOR percival: 


Horace or Percival as their calculations 
inclined them. The majority thought 
that old Thorne could never have the 
face to veer round again ; but there was 
the possibility on Percival’s side that his 
grandfather might die intestate, and with 
so capricious and unaccountable a man 
it did not seem altogether improbable. 
“Then,” as people sagely remarked, 
“this fellow would inherit — that is, if 
Alfred’s marriage was all right.” No 
one had any fault, except of a negative 
kind, to find with Percival, yet the ma- 
jority of Mr. Thorne’s old friends were 
inclined to dislike him. He did not hunt 
or go to races : he cared little for horses 
and dogs. No one understood him. He 
was indolent and sweet-tempered, and 
he was supposed to be satirical and 
scheming. What could his grandfather 
see in him to prefer him to Horace ? 
Percival would have answered with a 
smile, “ I am not his heir.” 

Mr. Thorne was happy this July, his 
boy having come to Brackenhill for a 
few days which would include the show. 

It was the evening before, and they 
were all assembled. Horace, coffee- 
cup in hand, leant in his favorite atti- 
tude against the chimney-piece. He 
was troubled and depressed, repulsed 
Mrs. Middleton’s smiling attempts to 
draw him out, and added very little to 
the general conversation. “ Sulky ” was 
Mr. Thorne’s verdict. 

Percival was copying music for Sissy. 
She stood near him, bending forward to 
catch the full light of the lamp to aid her 
in picking up a dropped stitch in her 
aunt’s knitting. Close by them sat God- 
frey Hammond in an easy-chair. 

He was a man of three or four and 
forty, by no means handsome, but very 
well satisfied with his good figure and 
his keen, refined features. He wanted 
color, his closely-cut hair was sandy, his 
eyes were of the palest gray, and his eye- 
brows faintly marked. He was slightly 
underhung, and did not attempt to hide 
the fact, wearing neither beard nor mou- 
stache. His face habitually wore a ques- 
tioning expression. 

Godfrey Hammond never lamented 
his want of good looks, but he bitterly 


regretted the youth which he had lost. 
His regret seemed somewhat premature. 
His fair complexion showed little trace 
of age, he had never known what illness 
was, and men ten or fifteen years younger 
might have envied him his slight active 
figure. But in truth the youth which he 
regretted was a dream. It was that legen- 
dary Golden Age which crowns the whole 
world with far-off flowers and fills hearts 
with longings for its phantom loveliness. 
The present seemed to Hammond hope- 
less, commonplace'and cold, a dull pro- 
cession of days tending downward to the 
grave. He was thus far justified in his 
regrets, that if his youth were as full of 
beauty and enthusiasm as he imagined 
it, he was very old indeed. 

“What band are they going to have 
to-morrow, Percival ?” asked Sissy. 

“ I did hear, but I forget. Stay, they 
gave me a programme when I was at 
the bookseller’s this afternoon.” He 
thrust his hand into his pocket and pull- 
ed out a handful of papers and letters. 
“It was a pink thing — I thought you 
would like it: what has become of it, I 
wonder ?” 

As he turned the papers over a photo- 
graph slipped out of its envelope. Sissy 
saw it: “Percival, is that some one’s 
carte ? May I look ?” 

“What!” said Godfrey Hammond, 
sticking a glass in his eye and peering 
short-sightedly, “Percy taking to car- 
rying photographs about with him ! 
Wonders will never cease I What fair 
lady may it be? — Come, man, let us 
have a look at her.” 

Percival colored very slightly, and then, 
as it were, contradicted his blush by toss- 
ing the envelope and its contents across 
to Godfrey: “No fair lady. Ask Sissy 
what she thinks of him.” 

“Why, it’s young Lisle I” said Ham- 
mond. Mr. Thorne looked up with sud- 
den interest. 

Percival reclaimed the photograph: 
“ Here, Sissy, what do you say ? Should 
you like him for your album ?” 

“ For my album ? A man I never saw! 
Who is he ?” Miss Langton inquired. 
“ Oh, he’s very handsome, though, isn’t 
he?” 


^^FOR percival: 


39 , 


Percival saw his grandfather was look- 
ing. “ It’s Mr. Lisle’s son,” he said. 

“ And very handsome ? Doesn’t take 
after his father.” 

(Mr. Lisle had been Percival’s guard- 
ian for the few months between his fath- 
er’s death and his majority. It had been 
a great grief to Mr. Thorne. Something 
which he said to his grandson when he 
first came to Brackenhill had been met 
by the rejoinder, very cool though per- 
fectly respectful in tone, " But, sir, if Mr. 
Lisle does not disapprove — ” The power- 
loving old man could not pardon Mr. 
Lisle for having an authority over Perci- 
val which should have belonged to him.) 

He put on his spectacles to look at the 
photograph which Sissy brought. It was 
impossible to deny the beauty of the face, 
though the style was rather effeminate : 
the features were almost faultless. 

“ Is it like him ?” said Sissy, looking 
up at young Thorne. 

“Very like,” he replied: “it doesn’t 
flatter him at all, if that is what you 
mean: does it, Hammond?” 

“ Not at all.” 

“ He used to sing in the choir of their 
church,” Percival went on. “They pho- 
tographed him once in his surplice — a 
sort of ideal chorister. All the old 
ladies went into raptures, and said he 
looked like an angel.” 

“And the young ladies?” said Mrs. 
Middleton. 

“Showed that they thought it.” 

“H’m!” said Mr. Thorne. “And 
where may this paragon be?” 

“At Oxford.” 

“Going into the Church ?” 

“ I don’t know. I’m sure. Not that I 
ever heard : I don’t fancy his tastes lie 
that way. He is very musical : proba- 
bly that was why he joined the choir.” 

“ I should say Lisle had money enough,” 
said Godfrey Hammond : “ he lives in very 
good style — if anything, a little too showy 
perhaps. He won’t want a profession. 
Most likely he will spend his life in think- 
ing that one of these days he will do 
something wonderful and convulse the 
musical world. Happy fellow!” 

“ But suppose he doesn’t do it ?” said 
Sissy. 


“ Happier fellow still 1 He will never 
have a doubt, and never know what fail- 
ure is.” 

“Perhaps,” she said, looking at the 
bright beautiful face, “ it would be better 
if Mr. Lisle were poor.” 

“ I doubt if he would appreciate the 
kindness which doomed him to poverty,” 
smiled Hammond. 

“ But perhaps he would not only dream 
then of something great: he might do it,” 
said Sissy. “That is, do you think he 
could really do anything great?” 

“ I don’t know. I’m sure. Talent looks 
very big in a small room.” 

“Is he the only one?” Mrs. Middleton 
inquired of Percival. 

“The only son: there is a daughter.” 

“A daughter ! Is she as wonderful as 
her brother ?” Sissy exclaimed. “ Have 
you got her photograph? What is she 
like ?” 

“ I will tell you,” said Godfrey Ham- 
mond, speaking very deliberately in his 
high-pitched voice. “ Miss Lisle is a very 
charming young lady. She is like her 
brother, but she is not so good-looking, 
and she is decidedly more masculine.” 

“Oh!” in a disdainful tone. Then, 
turning swiftly round: “But what do you 
say, Percival ?” 

He answered her, but he looked at 
Godfrey: “Hardly a fair description — 
not so much a portrait as a caricature. 
Miss Lisle’s features are not so perfect 
as her brother’s : she would not attract 
the universal admiration which he does. 
But I think there could be no question 
that hers is the nobler face.” 

“She is fortunate in her champion,” 
said Hammond. “ It’s all right, no doubt, 
and the fault is mine. I may not have 
so keen an eye for latent nobility.” 

“Stick to her brother, then, and let 
Miss Lisle alone and Percival stoop- 
ed over his copying again. Sissy came 
back to the table, but as she passed the 
lonely figure by the chimney-piece she 
spoke: “You are very silent, to-night, 
Horace.” 

“ I don’t seem to have much to say for 
myself, do I ?” 

She took up her knitting, and after a 
moment he came and stood by her. The 


40 


<^F0R rERCIVALF 


light fell on his face. “ And you don’t 
look well,” she said. 

“There’s not much amiss with me.” 

“ I shall betray you,” said Percival as 
he ruled a line. “He coughed in the 
hall. Sissy : 1 heard him, three times.” 

“Oh, my dear boy, you should take 
more care,” exclaimed Aunt Middleton : 
“ I know you have been dreadfully ill.” 

“I was blissfully unconscious of it, 
then,” said Horace. “ It was nothing, 
and I’m all right, thank you. — You are 
very busy. Sissy : what are you worrying 
about down there?” He laid his hand 
caressingly on her shoulder. Percival 
and she acted brother and sister some- 
times, but with Horace, whose pet and 
playfellow she had been as a little child, 
it was much more like reality. 

“Only a stitch gone.” 

“Well, let it go: you have lots with- 
out it.” 

“ You silly boy ! it isn’t that. Don’t 
you know it would run farther and far- 
ther, and ruin the whole work if it were 
not picked up at once ?” 

“You may not be aware of it,” said 
Hammond, “but that sounds remark- 
ably like a tract.’’' 

“ Then I hope you’ll all profit by it. — 
Horace, do you hear ? If ever you drop 
a stitch, be warned.” She looked up as 
she said it, and something in his face 
made her fancy that he had dropped a 
stitch of some kind. 

When she was saying good-night to 
Percival, Sissy asked abruptly, in a low 
voice, “What is Miss Lisle’s name ?” 

He answered, “Judith.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

JAEL, OR JUDITH, OR CHARLOTTE CORDAY. 

Sissy, when she reached her room that 
night, drew up the blind and stood look- 
ing out at the park, which was flooded with 
moonlight. “It ought to be Percival’s,” 
she thought. “I should like Horace to 
have plenty of money, but the old house 
ought to be Percival’s. He is so good : 
he screens Horace instead of thinking of 
himself. I do believe Horace is in some 
scrape now. And Aunt Middleton is al- 


ways thinking about him, too : she won’t 
let Uncle Thorne be just to Percival. Oh, 
it is a shame! — If he had Brackenhill 
perhaps he would marry Miss Lisle. I i 
wonder if he is in love with her? He 
spoke so coolly, not as if he were the 
least bit angry, when Godfrey Hammond 
laughed at her. But he said she had a 
noble face. — What did it remind me of 
when he said ‘ Judith ’ ?” Sissy was per- 
plexed for a few moments, and then their 
talk on the terrace a month before flash- 
ed into her mind — “Jael, or Judith, or 
Charlotte Corday,” and she remembered 
the very intonation with which Percival 
had repeated “Judith.” “Ah 1” said the 
girl half aloud, with a sudden intuition, 
“he was thinking of her when he talked 
of heroic women ! — Why wasn’t I born 
noble and heroic as well as others ? Is 
it my fault if I can’t bear people to be 
angry with me — if I always stop and 
think and hesitate, and then the moment 
is gone ? I couldn’t have driven the nail 
in, like Jael, for fear there should be just 
time for him to look up at me. I should 
have thrown the hammer down and died, 

I think. I wonder what made her able 
to do it — how she struck, and how she 
felt when the nail went crashing in ? I 
wonder whether I could have done it if 
Sisera had hated Percival — if I knew he 
meant to kill him — if it had been Perci- 
val’s life or his ?” 

Sissy proceeded to ponder the biblical 
narrative (with this slight variation), but 
she came to no satisfactory decision. She 
inclined to the opinion that Sisera would 
have woke up, somehow. She could not 
imagine what she could possibly feel like 
when the deed was done, except that she 
was certain she should be afraid ever to 
be alone with herself again for one mo- 
ment as long as she lived. 

So she went back to the original ques- 
tion : “ I dare say Miss Lisle is brave and 
calm, and horribly strong-minded: why 
wasn’t I born the same as she was ? Per- 
haps Percival would have cared for me 
then. He did say even I might find 
something I could die for: he didn’t 
think I was quite a coward. Ah! if I 
could only show him I wasn’t !” 

She stood for a moment looking out : 


^'FOR PERCIVALF 


•41 


“ He may marry Miss Lisle if he likes, 
and — and I hope they’ll be very happy 
indeed. But if ever 1 get a chance I’ll 
do something — for Percival.” 

With which magnanimous determina- 
tion Sissy went to bed; and if she did 
not have a nightmare tumult of Jael and 
Judith, nails and hammers, and murder- 
ed men about her pillow as she slept, I 
can but think her fortunate. But her 
last thought was a happy one : “ Per- 
haps he doesn’t care about her, after 
all !” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“PERHAPS I’m letting SECRETS OUT.” 

Fordborough had a glorious day for 
the agricultural show. Not a cloud dim- 
med the brightness of the sky : a breath 
of warm wind stirred the flags from time 
to time, and all was going as merrily as 
possible. The dogs were all barking in 
their special division, the poultry were 
all cackling in theirs. People had look- 
ed at the animals, as in duty bound, and 
were now putting their catalogues in their 
pockets and crowding into the flower- 
show. 

The Brackenhill party were there. 
Mr. Thorne, his sister, Godfrey Ham- 
mond and .Miss Langton had come over 
in state behind the sleek chestnut horses, 
and the young men had arranged to fol- 
low in the dog-cart. At present the two 
divisions had not met — nay, showed no 
symptom of uniting, but rather of break- 
ing up into three or four. Mrs. Middle- 
ton and Sissy had been walking about, 
encountering a bewildering number of 
acquaintances, and earnestly endeavor- 
ing to disseminate a knowledge of the 
fact that they considered it a beautiful 
day. Godfrey Hammond, their squire 
for some time, after arranging when he 
would meet them by the tent where the 
potatoes were, had taken himself off to 
look up some of the country gentlemen 
whom he met year after year when he 
came down to Brackenhill. There hap- 
pened to be several squires of the old 
sort in the neighborhood, and with these 
Godfrey Hammond enjoyed a friendship 


based on mutual contempt. He laughed 
at them, and they knew it; they laughed 
at him, and he knew it ; and each being 
convinced that his cause for scorn was 
the one well founded, they all got on de- 
lightfully together. Mr. Thorne, mean- 
while, was strolling round the field, halt- 
ing to talk from time to time, but fetter- 
ed by no companionship. 

He was presently pounced on by Mrs. 
Rawlinson, a fair, flushed beauty of two- 
and-forty with a daughter of fifteen. Peo- 
ple with a turn for compliment always 
supposed that this daughter was Mrs. 
Rawlinson’s sister, and when that as- 
sumption was negatived there had once 
been a prompt reply, "Oh, your siep- 
daughter you mean !” (The man who 
invented that last refinement of polite- 
ness was welcome to dine at the Raw- 
linsons’ whenever he liked, and, the din- 
ners being good, he was to be met there 
about twice a week.) 

She came down upon Mr. Thorne like 
a bright blue avalanche. "Ah!” she 
said, having shaken hands with him, "/ 
saw what you were doing. Now, do you 
agree with Mr. Horace Thorne in his 
taste ? Oh, it’s no use denying it : I saw 
you were looking at the beautiful Miss 
Blake.” 

" It is very possible,” Mr. Thorne re- 
plied, "only I didn’t know of her exist- 
ence.” 

" Oh, how severe you are ! I suppose 
you mean you don’t admire that style ? 
Well, now you mention it, perhaps — ” 

" I simply mean what I say. I was not 
aware that there was a Miss Blake on 
the ground to-day.” 

"Well, I am surprised I You are in 
the dark ! Do you see those tall girls in 
black and white, close by their mother, 
that fine woman in green ?” 

" Perfectly. And which is the beauti- 
ful Miss Blake ?” 

"Oh!” with a little giggle. "Fancy! 
Which is the beautiful Miss Blake? 
Why, the elder one, of course : there ! 
she is just looking round.” 

Mr. Thorne put up his eyeglass. "In- 
deed !” he said; "and who may Miss 
Blake be?” 

“ They have come to that pretty white 


42 ' 


*^FOR rERClVAir 


house where old Miss Hayward lived. 
Mr. Blake was a relation of hers, and 
she left it to him. He has some sort 
of business in London — very rich, they 
say, and all the young men are after the 
daughters.” 

“Probably the daughters haven’t the 
same opinion of the young men of the 
present day that I have,” said Mr. 
Thorne; “so I needn’t pity them.” 

“Fancy your not knowing anything 
about them ! I am surprised !” Mrs. 
Rawlinson repeated. “Such friends of 
Mr. Horace Thorne’s, too ! Ah, by the 
way, you must mind what you say about 
the young men who are after them. 
He’s quite a favorite there. I’m told.” 

“Perhaps Horace told you,” the old 
gentleman suggested with a quiet smile : 
“the news sounds as if it might come 
from that authority.” 

“Oh, no: I think not. Any one in 
Fordborough could tell you all about it. 
I suppose this summer — But, dear me ! 
here am I rattling on : perhaps I am let- 
ting secrets out.” 

“Not much of a secret if it is Ford- 
borough talk,” said Mr. Thorne bland- 
ly. But something in the expression of 
his eyes made Mrs. Rawlinson feel that 
she was on dangerous ground, and at 
any rate she had said enough. She hur- 
ried off to greet a friend she saw in the 
distance. 

Mr. Thorne was speedily joined by a 
neighboring landowner. “ I didn’t know 
I should see you here to-day,” he said to 
the newcomer. “ I heard you were laid 
up.” 

Mr. Garnett cursed his gout, but de- 
clared himself better. 

“ Look here,” said Thorne, laying his 
*■ hand on the other’s sleeve, “you know 
every one. Who and what are these 
Blakes ?” 

“Bless me! you don’t mean you don’t 
know? Why, the name’s up in every 
railway- station in the United Kingdom. 
‘ Patent British Corn-Flour ’ — that’s the 
man. ‘ Delicious Pudding in Five Min- 
utes ’ — you know the sort of thing. I 
don’t know that he does much in it 
now: I suppose he has a share. Very 
rich, they say.” 


Mr. Thorne had withdrawn his hand, 
and was listening with the utmost com- 
posure. “Ah!” he said, “very rich? 
And so all these good Fordborough 
people are paying court to him ?” 

“No,” Garnett grinned, “they don’t get 
the chance : don’t see much of him. No 
loss. They pay court to the daughters : 
it does just as well, and it’s a great deal 
pleasanter. Dear! dear! what a money- 
loving age it is ! Nothing but trade, 
trade, trade ! We shall see a duke be- 
hind the counter before long^ if we go 
on at this rate. Gentlemen used to be 
more particular in our young days — eh, 
Thorne ?” Having said this, he remem- 
bered that Thorne’s son married the can- 
dlemaker’s daughter. For a moment he 
was confounded, and then had to repress 
an inclination to laugh. 

“Ah, it was a different world alto- 
gether,” said Thorne, gliding dexterous- 
ly away from the corn-flour and can- 
dles too. “There was a young fellow 
staying with us a little while ago who 
was wild about photography. If he 
didn’t get just the right focus, the thing 
came out all wrong : he always made a 
mess of his groups. The focus was right 
for us in our young days, eh ? Now we 
have to stand on one side and come out 
all awry. No fault in the sun, you know.” 

“ I don’t care much about photo- 
graphs,” said Garnett. “All very well 
for the young folks, I dare say, but / 
sha’n’t make a pretty picture on this side 
of doomsday !” And indeed it did not 
seem likely that he would. So he de- 
parted, grinning, to say to the next man 
he met, “What do you think I’ve been 
doing ? Laughing about Blake’s patent 
corn - flour to old Thorne : forgot the 
composite candles — did, upon my word ! 
Said ‘ Gentlemen used to be more par- 
ticular in our young days,’ and the min- 
ute it was out of my mouth I remember- 
ed Jim and the candles. Fine girl she 
was, certainly. Poor old Thorne ! he was 
terribly cut up at the time. It was grand 
to see the two old fellows meet — as good 
as a play. Thorne held out just the tips 
of his fingers : I believe he thought if he 
shook hands with old Benham he should 
smell of tallow for ever. Ever see Ben- 


'FOJi PERCIVALF 


43 


ham’s monument ? They ordered it down 
from town — man knew nothing of course : 
how should he? So he went and put some 
angels weeping, and an inverted torch, 
just like a bundle of candles. Fact, by 
Jove ! I went to have a look at it my- 
self one day. Some of the Benhams 
were very sore about it. Dear ! dear ! 
I shouldn’t think the old fellow could 
ever have a quiet night there with that 
over him. Only, as he was covered up 
snugly first, perhaps he doesn’t know;” 
and Garnett, chuckling to himself at the 
idea, marched off to have a look at the 
prize pig. 

Meanwhile, the young Thornes had 
arrived, and came strolling around the 
field — a noticeable pair enough, tall, 
handsome and well dressed, walking 
side by side in all faith and friendliness, 
as they were not often to walk again. 
When people talked of them afterward 
a good many remembered how they 
looked on that day. Apparently, Hor- 
ace had resolved to throw off his trouble 
of the night before, and had succeeded. 
There was something almost defiant in 
the very brightness of his aspect, and 
the heat had flushed him a little, so that 
no one would have echoed Sissy’s ex- 
clamation of ” You don’t look well.” On 
the contrary, he was congratulated on 
his looks by many of his old friends, 
and seemed full of life and energy. 

Turning the corner of one of the tents, 
the two came suddenly on the Blakes. 
There was not one of the four who was 
utterly unconcerned at that meeting, 
though the interests and motives which 
produced the little thrill of excitement 
were curiously mingled and opposed. 
Two pairs of eyes flashed bright signals 
of mutual understanding : the others 
made no sign of what might be hidden 
in their depths. Delicately-gloved hands 
were held out, Mrs. Blake came forward 
fluent and friendly, and the two groups 
melted into one. 

Horace and Addie led the way round 
the tent. Percival followed with Lottie 
and her mother, feeling that he had nev- 
er rightly appreciated the latter’s con- 
versational powers before. When they 
emerged into the sunlight again, they 


encountered Mrs. Pickering and her 
girls, and in the talk that ensued our 
hero found himself standing by Addie. 

“Percival,” she said in a low, quick 
tone, “don’t be surprised. I want to say 
a word to you. Look as if it were noth- 
ing.” 

Though he was startled, he contrived 
not to betray it. After the first moment 
there is small danger of failing to appear 
indifferent — very great danger of seem- 
ing preternaturally indifferent. Percival 
had tact enough to avoid this. He lis- 
tened, and replied with the polite atten- 
tion which was natural to him, but his 
manner was tinged — any words I can 
find seem too coarse to describe it — with 
just the faintest shade of languor, just 
the slightest possible show of scorn and 
weariness of the great agricultural show 
itself. It was not enough to attract no- 
tice : it was quite enough to preclude any 
idea of excited interest. 

“ I am in a little difficulty,” said Addie. 
“You could help me if you would.” 

“You may command me.” 

“You will not mind a little trouble? 
And you would keep my secret ? I have 
no right to ask, but there is no one — I 
think you are my friend.” 

“ Suppose me a brother for this occa- 
sion; Addie, Waste no more time in 
apologies.” 

“A brother! Be it so. Then, my 
brother, I have to go through Langley 
Wood to-morrow evening, and I am 
afraid to go alone.” 

“ I will gladly be your escort. Where 
shall I meet you ?” 

“ There is a milestone about a quarter 
of a mile on the road to our house, after 
you have passed the gate into the wood. 
Don’t come any farther. Somewhere be- 
tween the gate and that.” 

“ I know it. At what time ?” 

“ Half-past eight, or a few minutes ear- 
lier. Will that suit you ?” 

“ Perfectly. I will be there.” 

“If you don’t see me before nine don’t 
wait for me. I shall have failed some- 
how.” 

“ I understand,” said Percival. 

“ I will explain to-morrow. You must 
trust me till then.” 


44 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


“You shall do as you please. I don’t 
ask for any explanations, remember. 
Have you been having much croquet 
lately ?’’ 

“ Oh, much as usual. Lottie has been 
beating me, also as usual. We have join- 
ed the h'ordborough Croquet Club.’’ 

“ Then I suspect, the former members 
feel small.’’ 

“One or two of the best players feel 
ill-tempered, I think, unless they make- 
believe very much. Lottie means to win 
the ivory mallet, she says ; and I think 
she will. Mrs. Rawlinson’s sister always 
considered herself the champion, and I 
am sure Lottie,’’ etc., etc. 

In short, by the time it occurred to 
anybody that Percival and Addie were 
talking together, their conversation, car- 
ried smoothly on, was precisely what 
anybody might hear. 

The Pickerings went off in one direc- 
tion, the Blakes in another, and the 
young men resumed their walk. 

“That’s over, and the governor not 
by,’’ said Horace. 

“ Don’t be too secure,’’ was Percival’s 
reply. “Everybody talks about every- 
body else at Fordborough.’’ 

“ Well,’’ said Horace, who apparently 
would not be discouraged, “it’s some- 
thing not to have been standing between 
the old gentleman and Aunt Middleton, 
and then to have seen Mrs. Blake sail- 
ing straight at one, her face illuminated 
with a smile visible to the naked eye a 
quarter of a mile off — eh, Percy ?’’ 

“You are a lucky fellow, no doubt,’’ 
said Percival. 

“And, after all, it is quite possible- — ’’ 

“That you may be a very lucky fel- 
low indeed? Yes, it is quite possible. 

* But I don’t quite see what you are after, 
Horace.’’ 

(“Nor I,’’ thought Horace to himself, 
“and that’s the charm of it, somehow.’’) 

“ Surely it isn’t worth while getting into 
trouble with my grandfather for a mere 
flirtation.’’ 

“ If you always stop to think whether 
a thing is worth while or not, Percy, I 
wouldn’t be you for all the money that 
ever was coined.’’ 

“And if it is more,’’ said the other, not 


heeding the remark — “I like fair play, 
but if it is more — ’’ 

“ What then ?’’ For Percival hesitated. 

“We’ll talk of that another time,’’ said 
the latter. “Not now. Only don’t be 
rash. Look! there’s Sissy.’’ 

“ How pretty she is !’’ thought Perci- 
val, as they went toward her. “ What 
can Horace see in Addie Blake, that he 
should prefer her ? ' She is a fine girl, 
handsome — magnificent, if you like — 
but Sissy is like a beautiful old picture, 
sweet and delicate and innocent. I 
can’t fancy her with secrets like Addie 
with this Langley Wood mystery of 
hers. If it had not been for that ideal 
of mine — ’’ 

They had reached the two ladies. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Thorne had listened 
to more odds and ends of gossip, and 
had gone on his way, warily searching 
among the shifting, many-colored groups. 
He was curious, and in due time his cu- 
riosity was gratified. The Blake girls 
passed him so closely that he could have 
touched them. They knew perfectly well 
who he was, and Lottie looked at him, 
but Addie passed on in her queenly 
fashion, with her head high, ajiparently 
not aware of his existence. 

“So,” said the old gentleman to him- 
self, “that is Horace’s taste? Well, 
she is very superb and disdainful, and 
I should think Patent Corn-Flour paid 
pretty well. She might have bestowed 
a glance on me, as I suppose she des- 
tines me the honor of being her grand- 
papa-in-law, but no doubt she knows 
what she is about, and it may be wiser 
to seem utterly unconscious, as Horace 
has not introduced us yet. Perhaps he 
will defer that ceremony a little while 
longer still. As for the other, she looked 
me straight in the face, as if she didn’t 
care a rap for any man living. I should- 
n’t think that girl was afraid of anything 
on earth — or under it or above it, for that 
matter. A temper of her own, plainly 
enough. The beautiful Miss Blake is 
Horace’s taste, of course (I could have 
sworn to that without a word from him), 
and ninety-nine out of a hundred would 
agree with him. But if I were five-and- 
twenty, and had to choose between them, 


**FOR PERCIVALF 


45 


♦ 

I’d take that fierce-eyed girl and tame 
her !” 

Of which process it may fairly be con- 
jectured that it would have ended in 
total defeat for Mr. Thorne, or in mutual 
and inextinguishable hatred, or, it might 
be — for he was hard as well as capri- 
cious — in a Lottie like a broken bow. 
In neither case a very desirable result. 

Godfrey Hammond, looking at his 
watch, and going in the direction of the 
tent where the potatoes were, perceived 
Mrs. Rawlinson, and endeavored to elude 
her. He loathed the woman, as he can- 
didly owned to himself, because he had 
once nearly approached the other ex- 
treme. It was a horrible thought. What 
had come over him and her ? Either she 
was strangely and hideously transformed 
— and how could he tell that as fearful a 
change might not have come to him ? — 
or else his youth was a time of illusion 
and bad taste. That perfect time, that 
golden dawn of manhood, when the 
world lay before him steeped in rosy 
light, when every pleasure had its bloom 
upon it, and every day was crowned with 
joy — Good Heavens! was it then that 
he cared to dance the polka in Fordbor- 
ough drawing-rooms with Mrs. Rawlin- 
son — Lydia Lloyd as she was of old? 
Little did that fascinating lady think 
what disgust at the remembrance of his 
incredible folly was in his soul as he met 
her. 

For she caught him and shook hands 


with him, and would not let him go till 
she had reminded him of old times as 
if they might have been yesterday and 
might be again to-morrow. He smiled, 
and blandly made answer as if they two 
were a pair of antediluvian polka-dancers 
left in a waltzing age to see another gen- 
eration spinning gayly round. (He could 
dance quite as well as Horace when he 
chose.) 

Mrs. Rawlinson did not like his style 
of conversation, and said abruptly, ‘‘ I 
had a talk with Mr. Thorne about half 
an hour ago. I was surprised 1 Mr. 
Horace Thorne seems to keep the old 
man quite in the dark.” 

“Mr. Horace Thorne is a clever fel- 
low, then,” said Hammond dryly. 

“Oh, you know all about it, I dare say. 
But really, I did think it was too bad. 
He didn’t seem ever to have heard 
Miss Blake’s name. He certainly did- 
n’t know her when he saw her.” 

“Unfortunate man! For Miss Blake 
so decidedly eclipses the Fordborough 
young ladies that such ignorance is de- 
plorable. No doubt you did what you 
could to remove it ?” 

“Well” — Mrs. Rawlinson tossed her 
blue bonnet — “ I really thought I ought 
to give him a hint: it seemed to me that 
it was quite a charity.” 

“A charity — ah yes, of course. Charity 
never faileth, does it ?” And Hammond 
raised his hat and bowed himself off. 


46 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 







CHAPTER IX. 

SISSY LOOKS INTO THE MIRROR. 

A LADY’S hero generally 
has ample leisure. He 
may write novels or 
poems, or paint the pic- 

— ture or carve 

the statue of 
the season, or 
he is a states- 
man and rules 
the destinies of 
nations, or he 
makes money 
mysteriously 
in the city, or 
even, it may be, not less mysteriously 
on the turf ; but he does it in his odd 
minutes. That is his characteristic. Per- 
haps he spends his morning in stupen- 
dous efforts to gratify a wish expressed 
in smiling hopelessness by the heroine ; 
later, he calls on her or he rides with 
her ; evening comes, he dances with her 
till the first gray streak of dawn has 
touched the eastern sky. He goes home. 
His pen flies along the paper — he is knee- 
deep in manuscript; he is possessed with 
burning enthusiasm and energy ; her fea- 
tures grow in idealized loveliness beneath 
his chisel, or the sunny tide of daylight 
pours in to irradiate the finished picture 
as well as the exhausted artist with a 
golden glory. He has a talent for sit- 
ting up. He gets up very early indeed 
if he is in the country, but he never goes 
to bed early, or when would he achieve 
his triumphs ? Some things, it is true, 
must be done by day, but half an hour 
will work wonders. The gigantic intel- 
lect is brought to bear on the confiden- 
tial clerk : the latter is, as it were, wound 
up, and the great machine goes on. Or 
’ a hasty telegram arrives as the guests 
file in to dinner. “ Pardon me, one mo- 
ment;” and instantly something is sent 
off in cipher which shall change the face 
of Europe. Unmoved, the hero returns 


to the love-making which is the true 
business of life. 

There are poetry and romance enough 
in many an outwardly prosaic life. How 
often have we been told this ! Nay, we 
have read stories in which the hero pos- 
sesses a season-ticket, and starts from his 
trim suburban home after an early break- 
fast, to return in due time to dine, per- 
haps to talk a little ” shop ” over the meal, 
and, it may be, even to feel somewhat 
sleepy in the evening. But, as far as my 
experience goes, the day on which the 
story opens is the last on which he does 
all this. That morning he meets the 
woman with the haunting eyes or the 
old friend who died long ago — did not 
the papers say so? — and whose resur- 
rection includes a secret or two. Or he 
is sent for to some out-of-the-way spot in 
the country where there is a mysterious 
business of some kind to be unravelled. 
At any rate, he needs his season-ticket 
never again, but changes more or less 
into the hero we all know. 

It is hard work for these unresting men, 
no doubt, yet what is to be done ? Un- 
less the double-shift system can in any 
way be applied for their relief, I fear they 
must continue to toil by night that they 
may appear to be idle men. 

And, after all, were the hero not alto- 
gether heroic, one is tempted to doubt if 
this abundant leisure is quite a gain. 

Addie Blake, planning some bright lit- 
tle scheme which needed a whole day and 
an unoccupied squire, said once to God- 
frey Hammond, ” You can’t think what a 
comfort it is to get some one who hasn’t 
to go to business every day. I hate the 
very name of business ! Now, you are 
always at hand when you are wanted.” 

“Yes,” he said, “we idle men have a 
great advantage over the busy ones, no 
doubt; but I think it almost more than 
counterbalanced by our terrible disad- ^ 
vantage.” a 

“ What is that ?” { 


FOR PERCIVALF 


47 


"We are at hand when we are not 
wanted,” said Godfrey seriously. 

And I think he was right. One may 
have a great liking — nay, something 
warmer than liking — for one’s compan- 
ions in endless idle tete-h-tetes^ but they are 
perilous nevertheless. Some day the pale 
ghost — weariness, ennui, dearth of ideas, 
I hardly know what its true name is — 
comes into the room to see if the atmo- 
sphere will suit it, and sits down between 
you. You cannot see the colorless spec- 
tre, but are conscious of a slight exhaus- 
tion in the air. Everything requires a 
little effort — to breathe, to question, to 
answer, to look up, to appear interested. 
You feel that it is your own fault, per- 
haps : you would gladly take all the 
blame if you could only take all the 
burden. Perhaps the failing is yours, 
but it is your fault only as it is the fault 
of an electric eel that after many shocks 
his power is weakened and he wants to 
be left alone to recover it. 

Still, though there may be no fault, it 
is a terrible thing to feel one’s heart sink 
suddenly when one’s friend pauses for a 
moment in the doorway as if about to re- 
turn. One thinks. If weariness cannot be 
kept at bay in the society of those we love, 
where can we be safe from the cold and 
subtle blight ? As soon as we are con- 
scious of it, it seems to become part of 
us, and we shrink from the popular idea 
of the Hereafter, assured of finding our 
spectre even in the courts of heaven. 

Godfrey Hammond expressed the fear 
of too much companionship in speech, 
Percival Thorne in action. He was giv- 
en to lonely walks if the weather were 
fine — to shutting himself in his own room 
with a book if it were wet. He would 
dream for hours, for I will frankly con- 
fess that when he was shut up with a 
book, his book as ^ often as not was in 
that condition too. 

His grandfather had complained more 
than once,. "You don’t often come to 
Brackenhill, Percival, except to solve 
the problem of how little you can see 
of us in a given time.” He did not sus- 
pect it, but much of the strong attraction 
which drew him to his grandson lay in 
that very fact. The latter confronted 


him in grave independence, just touched 
w'ith the courteous deference due from 
youth to age, but nothing more. Mr. 
Thorne would have thanked Heaven 
had the boy been a bit of a spendthrift, 
but Percival was too wary for that. He 
did not refuse his grandfather’s gifts, but 
he never seemed in want of them. They 
might help him to pleasant superfluities, 
but his attitude said plainly enough, " I 
have sufficient for my needs.” He was 
not to be bought : the very aimlessness 
of his life secured him from that. You 
cannot earn a man’s gratitude by help- 
ing him onward in his course when he 
is drifting contentedly round and round. 
He was not to be bullied, being conscious 
of his impregnable position. He was not 
to be flattered in any ordinary way. It 
was so evident to him that the life he had 
chosen must appear an unwise choice to 
the majority of his fellow -men that he 
accepted any assurance to the contrary 
as the verdict of a small minority. Nor 
was he conscious of any especial power 
or originality, so that he could be pleased 
by being told that he had broken conven- 
tional trammels and was a great soul. Mr. 
Thorne did not know how to conquer him, 
and could not have enough of him. 

It is needful to note how the day after 
the agricultural show was spent at Brack- 
enhill. 

Godfrey Hammond left by an early 
train. Mrs. Middleton came down to 
see about his breakfast with a splitting 
headache. The poor old lady’s suffering 
was evident, and Sissy’s suggestion that 
it was due to their having walked about 
so much in the broiling sun the day before 
was unanimously accepted. Mrs. Middle- 
ton countenanced the theory, though she 
privately attributed it to a sleepless night 
which had followed a conversation with 
Hammond about Horace. 

Percival vanished immediately after 
breakfast. As soon as he had ascer- 
tained that there were no especial plans 
for the day, he slipped quietly away with 
his hands in his pockets, strolled through 
the park, whistling dreamily as he went, 
and passing out into the road, crossed it 
and made straight for the river. He lay 
on the grass for half an hour or so, study- 


48 


*^FOR PERCIVALF 


ing the growth of willows and the habits 
of dragon-flies, and then sauntered along 
the bank. Had he gone to the left it 
would have led him past Langley Wood 
to Fordborough. He went to the right. 

It was a gentle little river, which had 
plenty of time to spare, and amused it- 
self with wandering here and there, tra- 
cing a bright maze of curves and unex- 
pected turns. At times it would linger 
in shady pools, where, half asleep, it 
seemed to hesitate whether it cared to 
go on to the county-town at all that day. 
But Percival defied it to have more lei- 
sure than he had, and followed the silvery 
clue till all at once he found himself face 
to face with an artist who sat by the river- 
side sketching. 

The young man looked up with a half 
smile as Percival came suddenly upon 
him from behind a clump of alders. A 
remark of some kind, were it but con- 
cerning the weather, was inevitable. It 
was made, and was followed by others. 
Young Thorne looked, admired and 
questioned, and they drifted into an 
aimless talk about the art which the 
painter loved. Even to an outsider, such 
as Percival, it was full of color and grace 
and acharm half understood, vaguely sug- 
gestive of a world of beauty — not far off 
and inaccessible, but underlying the com- 
mon, every-day world of which we are 
at times a little weary. It was as if one 
should tell us of virtue new and strange in 
the often-turned earth of our garden-plot. 
Percival was rather apt to analyze his 
pains and pleasures, but his ideal was 
enjoyment which should defy analysis, 
and he found something of it that morn- 
ing in the summer weather and his new 
friend’s talk. 

It was past noon. The young artist 
looked at his watch and ascertained the 
fact. “ Do you live near here ?” he 
asked. 

Percival shook his head : “ I live any- 
where. I am a wanderer on the face of 
the earth. But my grandfather lives in 
that gray house over yonder, and I am 
free to come and go as I choose. I am 
staying there now.” 

” Brackenhill, do you mean ? That fine 
old house on the side of the hill ? lam 


lodging at the farm down there, and the 
farmer — ” 

" John Collins,” said Percival. 

" Entertains me every night with stories 
of its magnificence. Since we have smok- 
ed our pipes together I have learnt that 
Brackenhill is the eighth wonder of the 
world.” 

"Not quite,” said Thorne. "But it is 
a good old manor-house, and, thank 
Heaven, my ancestors for a good many 
generations wasted their money, and had 
none to spare for restoring and beautify- 
ing. I don’t mean my grandfather : he 
wouldn’t hurt it. It’s a quaint old place. 
Come some afternoon and look at it. 
He shall show you his pictures.” 

"Thanks,” the other said, but he hesi- 
tated and looked at his unfinished work. 
" I should like, but I don’t quite know. 
The fact is, when I have done for to-day 
I’m to have old Collins’s gig and drive 
into Fordborough to see if there are any 
letters for me. I am not sure I shall not 
have to leave the first thing to-morrow.” 

"And I have made you waste your 
time this morning.” 

"Don’t mention it,” said the young 
artist with the brightest smile. " I’m not 
much given to bemoaning past troubles, 
and I shall be in a very bad way indeed 
before I begin to find fault with past plea- 
sures. I may not find my letter after all, 
and in that case I should like very much 
to look you up. To-morrow ?” 

"Pray do.” The tone was unmistaka- 
bly cordial. 

"Your grandfather’s name is Thorne, 
isn’t it? Shall I ask for young Mr. 
Thorne ?” 

" Percival Thorne,” was the quick cor- 
rection : " I have a cousin.” 

They shook hands, but as Thorne turn- 
ed away the other called after him : " I 
say ! is there any name to that little wood 
out there, looking like a dark cloud on 
the green?” 

"Yes — Langley Wood.” Percival nod- 
ded a second farewell, and went on his 
way pondering. And this was the sub- 
ject of his thoughts : " Then, my brother, 
I have to go through Langley Wood to- 
morrow evening, and I am afraid to go 
alone.” 


^'FOR PERCIVALF 


49 


Of course he had not forgotten his 
promise to Addie, but having made his 
arrangements and worked it all out in 
his own mind, he had dismissed it from 
his thoughts. Now, however, it rose up 
before him as a slightly disagreeable 
puzzle. 

What on earth did Addie want toward 
nine at night in Langley Wood ? The 
day before, in haste to answer her re- 
quest and anxiety not to betray her, he 
had not considered whether the service 
he had promised to render were pleasant 
to him or not. In very truth, he was 
willing to serve Addie, and he had pro- 
fessed his willingness the more eagerly 
that he had expected a harder task. She 
asked so slight a thing that only eager 
readiness could give the service any 
grace at all. 

But when he came to consider it he 
half wished that his task had been hard- 
er if it might have been different. He 
liked Addie, he was ready to serve her, 
but he foresaw possible annoyances to 
them both from her hasty request. He 
had no confidence in her prudence. 

“Some silly freak of hers,” he thought 
while he walked along, catching at the 
tops of the tall flowering weeds as he 
went. “ Some silly girlish freak. Why 
didn’t she ask Horace? Wouldn’t run 
any risk of getting him into trouble, I 
suppose.” 

Did Horace know ? he wondered. “ I’m 
not going to be made use of by him and 
her: they needn’t think it !” vowed Per- 
cival in sudden anger. But next mo- 
ment he smiled at his own folly : “ When 
I have given my word, and must go if 
fifty Horaces had planned it ! I had bet- 
ter save my resolutions for next time.” 
He did not think, however, that Horace 
did know. “ Which makes it all the 
worse,” he reflected. “A charming com- 
plication it wdll be if I get into trouble 
with him about Addie. Suppose some 
one sees us? Suppose Mrs. Blake is 
down upon me, questioning, and I, 
pledged to secrecy, haven’t a word to 
say for myself? Suppose Lottie — Oh, 
I say, a delightful arrangement this is 
and no mistake !” 

He could only hope that no one would 
4 


see them, and that Addie’s mystery would 
prove a harmless one. 

He got in just as they were sitting 
down to luncheon. Horace and Sissy 
had spent the morning in archery and 
idleness, Mrs. Middleton in nursing her 
headache. Mr. Thorne was not there. 

“ Been enjoying a little solitude ?” Hor- 
ace inquired. 

“ Not much of that,” was the answer. ' 
“A good deal of talk instead.” 

“ What ! did you find a friend out in the 
fields ?” 

“Yes,” said Percival, “a young artist.” 
As he spoke he remembered that he was 
ignorant of his new friend’s name. At 
least he knew it was “Alf,” owing to 
some story the painter had told : “ I 
heard my brother calling ‘Alf! Alfi’ so 
I,” etc. Alf — probably therefore Alfred 
— surname unknown. 

They were halfway through their meal 
when Mr. Thorne came noiselessly in 
and took his accustomed place. He was 
very silent, and had a curiously intent 
expression. Horace, who was telling 
Sissy some trifling story about himself 
(Horace’s little stories generally were 
about himself), finished it lamely in a 
lowered voice. Mr. Thorne smiled. 

There was a silence. Percival went 
steadily on with his luncheon, but Hor- 
ace pushed away his plate and sipped 
his sherry. The birds were twittering 
outside in the sunshine, but there was 
no other sound. It was like a breath- 
less little pause of expectation. 

At last Mr. Thorne spoke, in such 
sweetly courteous tones that they all 
knew he meant mischief. “Are you 
particularly engaged this afternoon?” 
he inquired of Horace. 

“Not at all engaged,” said the young 
man. His heart gave a great throb. 

“ Then perhaps you -could give me a 
few minutes in the library?” 

“I shall be most — ” Horace began. 
But he checked himself and said, “Cer- 
tainly. When shall I come ?” 

“As soon as you have finished your 
luncheon, if that will suit you ?” 

“ I have finished.” He drank off his 
wine, and, without looking at the others, 
walked defiantly to the door, stood aside 


I 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


50 

for his grandfather to pass, and followed 
him out. 

Mrs. Middletoh and Sissy exchanged 
glances. "Oh, my dear!” the old lady 
exclaimed. " Oh, I’m so frightened I I 
am afraid poor Horace is in trouble. 
Godfrey Hammond was saying only last 
night — ” 

She paused suddenly, looking at Per- 
cival. He sat with his back to the win- 
dow, and the dark face was very dark in 
the shadow. It was just as well perhaps, 
for he was thinking "Told you so!” a 
train of thought which seldom produces 
an agreeable expression. 

"What did Godfrey Hammond say?” 
Sissy asked. But nothing was to be got 
out of Aunt Middleton, so they adjourn- 
ed to the drawing-room to wait for Hor- 
ace’s return. Percival read the paper; 
Mrs. Middleton lay on the sofa; Sissy 
flitted to and fro, now taking up a book, 
now her work, then at the piano, playing 
idly with one hand or singing snatches 
of her favorite songs. There was a mir- 
ror in which, looking sideways, she could 
see herself reflected as she played and 
Percival as he read — as much of him, 
at least, as was not swallowed up in the 
Times. There is something ghostly about 
a little picture like this reflected in a glass. 
It is so silent and yet so real : the people stir, 
look up, their lips move, they have every 
sign of life, but there is no sound. There 
are noises in the room behind you, but 
the people in the mirror make none. The 
Times may be rustling and crackling else- 
where, but Percival’s ghost turns a ghost- 
ly paper whence no sound proceeds. Sis- 
sy is playing a little tinkling treble tune, 
but at the piano yonder slim white fingers 
are silently wandering over the ivory keys, 
and the girl’s eyes look strangely out from 
the polished surface. 

Sissy gazed and mused. Perhaps some 
day Percival will reign at Brackenhill. 
And who will sit at that piano where the 
ghost -girl sits now, and what soundless 
melodies will be played in that silent 
room ? 

Sissy’s left hand steals down to the 
bass, striking solemn chords. "If one 
could but look into the glass,” she thinks, 
"and see the future there, as people do 


in stories ! What eyes would look out at 
me instead of mine ? Ah, well ! If I 
could but see Percival there I would try 
to be content, even if the girl turned 
away her face. I would be content. I 
would ! I would !” 

She turns resolutely away from the 
mirror, and begins that old royalist song 
in which yearning for the vanished past 
and mourning for the dreary present 
cannot triumph over the hope of far-off 
brightness — "When the king enjoys his 
own again.” To Mrs. Middleton, to Per- 
cival, a mere song — to Sissy a solemn re- 
nunciation of all but the one hope. Let 
her king enjoy his own, and the rest be 
as Fate wills. 

The last note dies away. Moved by a 
sudden impulse, she lifts her eyes to the 
ghost Percival. He has lowered his pa- 
per a little, and is looking at her with a 
wondering smile. A voice behind her ex- 
claims, "Why, Sissy !” She darts across 
the room to the speaker and pushes the 
Times away altogether. " Percival,” she 
says in a low, breathless voice, " does 
Miss Lisle play?” 

"Miss Lisle!” He is surprised. "Oh 
yes, she plays. But not as well as her 
brother, I believe.” 

"And does she sing?” 

"Yes. I heard her once. But no bet- 
ter than you sang just now. What has 
come to you, Sissy ? You have found the 
one thing that was wanting.” 

"What was that ?” 

"Earnestness, depth. You sang it as 
if your soul and the soul of the song 
were one. Now I can tell you that I 
fancied you only skimmed over the sur- 
face of things — like a bird over the sea. 

I can tell you now, since I was wrong.” 

Her cheeks are glowing. "And Miss, 
Lisle ?” she says. 

"What, now, about Miss Lisle?” He 
is amused and perplexed at Sissy’s per- 
sistence. 

"She is one of your heroic women ;” 
and Miss Langton nods her pretty head. 
" Oh, I know ! Jael and Judith and 
Charlotte Corday.” 

"I don’t think I said anything about 
Judith: surely suggested her. And, 
to tell you the truth. Sissy, I looked in 


*'FOR PERC/FALF 


51 


the Apocrypha, and I thought I liked 
her the least of the trio. It wasn’t a 
swift impulse like Jael’s, who suddenly 
saw the tyrant given into her hands, and 
it wanted the grace of Charlotte Corday’s 
utter self-sacrifice and quick death. Ju- 
dith had great honor, and lived to be over 
a hundred, didn’t she ? I wonder if she 
often talked about Holofernes when she 
was eighty or ninety, and about her tri- 
umph — how she was crowned with a gar- 
land and led the dance ? She ran an 
awful risk, no doubt, but she was in aw- 
ful peril : it was glory or death. Char- 
lotte Corday had no chance of a triumph : 
she must have known that success, as 
w'ell as failure, meant the death-cart and 
the guillotine. Judith seems to have play- 
ed her part fairly well to the end, I allow, 
but don’t you think the praises and the 
after-life spoil it rather?” 

Sissy, passing lightly over Percival’s 
views about Charlotte Corday and the 
widow of a hundred and five who was 
mourned by all Israel, pounced on a 
more interesting avowal : ” So you look- 
ed Judith out and studied her ? Oh, Per- 
cival !” 

“My dear Sissy, shall I tell you how 
many times I have seen Miss Lisle ?” 
He was answering her arch glance rath- 
er than her spoken question. ” How few 
times, I should say. Twice.” 

“ I’ve made up my mind about people 
when I’ve only seen them once,” said 
Sissy, apparently addressing the carpet. 

“Very likely; some people have that 
power,” said Percival. ” Besides, seeing 
them once may mean that you had a 
good long interview under favorable cir- 
cumstances. Now,” with a smile, “shall 
I tell you all that Miss Lisle and I said 
to each other in our two meetings?” He 
paused, encountering Sissy’s eyes, bril- 
liantly and wickedly full of meaning. 

“ What ! do you remember every word ? 
Oh, Percival J” 

“Hush!” said Mrs. Middleton, lifting 
her head from the cushion: “listen! isn’t 
that Horace?” 

“I think so;” and Percival stooped for 
the Times, which had fallen on the floor. 
Sissy stood with her hand on his chair, 
making no attempt to conceal her anx- 


iety. The old lady noted her parted lips 
and eager eyes. “Ah! she does care 
for Horace. I knew it I I knew it!” she 
thought. 

He came in, looking white and angry : 
his mouth was sternly set, and there was 
a fierce spark in his gray eyes. Mrs. 
Middleton beckoned him to her sofa, 
and would have drawn the proud head 
down to her with a tender whisper of 
“Tell me, my dear.” But the young 
fellow straightened himself and faced 
them all as he stood by her side. She 
clasped and fondled his passive hand. 
“What is the matter, Horace?” she said 
at last. 

“As it happens, there is nothing much 
the matter,” he replied. 

“You look as if a good deal might be 
the matter,” said Sissy. 

He made no answer for the moment. 
Then he looked at her with a curious 
sort of smile : “ Sissy, when we were lit- 
tle — when you were very little indeed — 
do you remember old Rover.?” 

“That curly dog? Oh yes.” 

“ I used to have him in a string some- 
times, and take him out : it was great 
fun,” said Horace pensively. “ I liked to 
feel him all alive, scampering and tug- 
ging at the end of the string. It was best 
of all, I think, to give him an unexpected 
jerk just when he was going to sniff at 
something, and take him pretty well off 
his legs : he was so astonished and dis- 
appointed. But it was very grand too, 
if he would but make up his mind he 
wanted to go one way, to pull at him 
and 7nake him go just the opposite. He 
was obstinate, was old Rover, but that 
was the fun of it. I was obstinate too, 
and the stronger. How long has he been 
dead ?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know — twelve or 
thirteen years. Why ?” 

“ Is it as long as that ? Well, I dare 
say it is. It has occurred to me to-day 
for the first time that perhaps it was ra- 
ther hard on Rover now and then. — Aunt 
Harriet, why did you let me have the poor 
old fellow and ill-use him ?” 

“ My dear boy, what do you mean ? I 
don’t think you were ever cruel — not 
really cruel, you know. Children always 


52 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


will be heedless, but I think Rover was 
fond of you.” 

‘‘I doubt it,” said Horace. 

” But what do you mean ?” The old 
lady was fairly perplexed. ” What makes 
you think of having poor old Rover in a 
string to-day? I don’t understand. 

“ Which things are an allegory.” Hor- 
ace looked more kindly down at the suf- 
fering face, and attempted to smile. “ It 
was very nice then, but to-day I’m the 
dog.” 

“String pulled tight?” said Percival. 

“Jerked.” He disengaged his hand. 
“ I think I’ll go and have a cigar in the 
park.” Percival was going to rise, but 
Horace as he passed pressed his fingers 
on his shoulder : “ No, old fellow ! not to- 
day — many thanks. You lecture me, you 
know, and generally I don’t care a rap, so 
you are quite welcome. But to-day I’m 
a little sore, rubbed up the wrong way : I 
might take it seriously. Another time.” 

And he departed, leaving his lecturer 
to reflect on this brilliant result of all his 
outpourings of wisdom. 


CHAPTER X. 

IN LANGLEY WOOD. 

At Brackenhill they invariably dined 
at six o’clock, nor was the meal a lengthy 
one. Mr. Thorne drank little wine, and 
Horace was generally only too happy to 
escape to the drawing-room at the ear- 
liest opportunity. Percival could very well 
dine at home and yet be true to his ren- 
dezvous in Langley Wood. 

As the time drew near he became 
thoughtful and, to tell the truth, a little 
out of temper. He liked his dinner, and 
Addie Blake interfered with his quiet en- 
joyment of it. He would have chosen to 
lie on the sofa in the cool, quaint, rose- 
scented drawing-room, and get Sissy to 
sing to him. Instead of which he must 
tramp three miles along a dusty white 
road that July evening to meet a girl he 
didn’t particularly want to see, and to 
hear a secret which he didn’t much want 
to know, and which he distinctly didn’t 
want to be bound to keep. Decidedly a 
bore ! 


It was only twenty minutes past seven 
when they joined the ladies. Sissy rep- 
resented the latter force. Aunt Middleton 
having gone to lie down in the hope of 
being better later in the evening. Mr. 
Thorne fidgeted about the room for a 
minute, and then went off to the library, 
whereupon Horace stretched himself with 
a sigh of relief. “ Come out. Sissy, and 
have a turn in the garden.” 

“ But, Percival,” she hesitated, “ what 
are you going to do?” 

“ Don’t think about me : I must go out 
for a little while.” He left them on the 
terrace and started on his mysterious er- 
rand. As he let himself out into the road 
by a little side-gate of which he had pock- 
eted the key, it was five-and-twenty min- 
utes to eight. He had abundance of time. 
It was not three miles to the white gate 
into Langley Wood, a little more than 
three miles to the milestone beyond 
which he was on no account to go, and 
he had almost an hour to do it in. Nev- 
ertheless, he started on his walk like a 
man in haste. 

The great Fordborough agricultural 
show lasted two days, and on the second 
the price of admission was considerably 
reduced. It had occurred to Percival that 
the roads in every direction would prob- 
ably be crowded with people making their 
way home — people who would have had 
more beer than was good for them. Ad- 
die would never think of such a possibil- 
ity. It was true that the road from Ford- 
borough which led past Brackenhill would 
be quieter than any other, but still young 
Thorne was seriously uneasy as he strode 
along. It was also true that he met hard- 
ly any one as he went, but even that 
failed to reassure him. “A little too 
early for them to have come so far, I 
suppose,” was his comment to himself: 
“at any rate, she shall not wait for me.” 

He passed the white gate, having en- 
countered only a few stragglers, but be- 
fore he reached the milestone he saw 
Addie Blake coming along the road to 
meet him. 

She was flushed, eager, excited, and 
looked even handsomer than usual. Per- 
cival would never fall in love with Addie. 
That was very certain, but the certainty 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


53 


did not prevent a quick thrill of admira- 
tion which tingled through his blood as 
she advanced in her ripe dark beauty to 
meet him. By it, as by a charm, the ser- 
vice which had been almost a weariness 
was transmuted to a happy privilege, and 
the half-reluctant squire became willing 
and devoted. 

“You are more than punctual,” was 
his greeting. 

She smiled as she held out her hand : 
“ I may say the same of you.” 

“ I was anxious,” he confessed. “The 
roads are not likely to be very quiet to- 
day. And after sunset — ” 

“Yes,” said Addie. “No doubt it 
seems strange to you that I should choose 
this day and this time — ” 

“I hardly know what I should have 
done if I had seen nothing of you when 
I reached the milestone,” he went on, in- 
terrupting her. His curiosity was awa- 
kened now that he was so close to Addie’s 
little mystery, but he was anxious that 
she should not feel bound to tell him 
anything she would rather keep to her- 
self — very anxious that she should un- 
derstand that he would not pry into her 
secrets. 

“ If you had gone much farther you 
would have missed me,” she said. 

“Which way did you come?” 

“ I did not come straight from home. 
Do you see that little red house ? I am 
drinking tea there, and spending a quiet 
evening.” 

“ How very pleasant !” said Percival. 
“And who has the privilege of enter- 
taining you ?” 

“ Mrs. Wardlaw. She is the widow of 
an officer — quite young. She is a friend 
of mine : she lives with an invalid aunt, 
an old Mrs. Watson.” 

“And what does Mrs. Wardlaw think 
of your taking a little stroll by yourself 
in the evening?” 

“Mrs. Wardlaw asked me there on 
purpose. Yesterday I saw her at the 
show, and gave her a little note as we 
shook hands. This morning came an 
invitation to me to go and drink tea there. 
I told mamma and Lottie I should go — 
papa is out — so one of the servants walk- 
ed there with me at half-past six, and 


will call for me again at ten or a little 
after.” 

“ Very ingeniously managed,” said Per- 
cival. “And the invalid aunt ?” 

“Went up to her room and left Mary 
and me to our devices,” smiled Addie. 
“A delightful old lady. Ah’, here is the 
wood.” 

“We shall probably have this part of 
our walk to ourselves,” Percival remark- 
ed as he swung the gate open. “ People 
going home from the show are not likely 
to stop to take a turn in Langley Wood.” 

The sound of a rattling cart and shouts 
of discordant laughter, mixed with what 
was intended for a song, came along the 
road they had just quitted. Addie took 
a few hurried steps along the path, which 
curved enough to hide her from observa- 
tion in a moment. Safe behind a screen 
of leaves, she paused : “ What horrible 
people ! Is that a sample of what I may 
expect as I go back ?” 

“ I fear so,” said Percival. “ I shall 
see you safe to Mrs. Wardlaw’s door.” 

“You shall see me safe if you have 
good eyes,” she answered. “But you 
will not go to the door with me.” 

“Ah!” he said. “Mrs. Wardlaw is 
only half trusted ?” 

Addie smiled: “What people don’t 
know they can’t let out, can they ?” 

“Pray understand that you are quite 
at liberty to apply that very wise — mark 
me, that very wise — discovery of yours to 
my case,” said Thorne, looking straight 
at her. “ You talked about good eyes just 
now. Mine are good or bad as it suits 
me.” At any rate, they were earnest 
as they met hers. 

“ Don’t shut them on my account,” said 
Addie. “ No, Percival : you are not like 
Mrs. Wardlaw. I mean to tell you all 
about it.” 

But for a moment she did not speak. 
They were fairly in the wood ; the trees 
were arching high above their heads; 
their steps were noiseless on the turf be- 
low ; outside were warmth and daylight 
still, but here the shadows and the cool- 
ness of the night. A leathern-winged 
bat flitted across their path through the 
gathering dusk. “ They always look like 
ghosts,” said Addie. “Doesn’t it seem, 


54 


*^FOR PERCIVALr 


Percival, as if the night had come upon 
us unawares ?” 

As she spoke they reached a little open 
space. The path forked right and left. 
“Which way ?’’ said Thorne. 

“I don’t know. I’m sure. There’s a 
cottage on the farther side of the wood, 
toward the river — ’’ 

“ Is that your destination ? To the 
right, then.’’ And to the right they went. 

“ When you promised to help me,” 
Addie began, “ do you remember what 
you said ? I was to consider you as — ” 
She paused, fixing her questioning eyes 
on him. 

“ As a brother. What then ? Have I 
failed in my duty already ?” 

She shook her head, smiling : “ Per- 
cival, what do you think that means to 
me ?” 

“Ah, that’s a difficult question. Of 
course we who have no brothers can only 
imagine — we cannot know. But I have 
sometimes fancied that the idea we attach 
to the word brother is higher because no 
commonplace reality has ever stepped in 
to spoil it. For it is an evident fact that 
some people have brothers who are pro- 
saic, and even disagreeable, while all the 
noble brothers of history and romance 
are ours. We may take Lord Tresham 
for our ideal (you remember Tresham in 
A Biotin the 'Scutcheon?), and declare 
with him — 

I think, am sure, a brother’s love exceeds 
All the world's love in its unworldliness.” 

“Stop !” said Addie. “You are going 
into the question much too enthusiasti- 
cally and much too poetically. I don’t 
know anything about your Tresham. 
And you mustn’t class me with your- 
self, ‘ we who have no brothers.’ I have 
one, Percival.” 

“A brother? You have one? Why, 
I always fancied — ” 

“ Well, a half-brother.” Addie made 
this concession to strict truth with some- 
thing of reluctance in her tone, as if she 
did not like to own that her brother could 
possibly have been any nearer than he 
was. " It is my brother I am going to 
meet to-night.” 

Percival, fluent on the subject of broth- 
ers in general, was so astonished at the 


idea of this particular brother or half- 
brother that he said “Oh!” 

“Papa married twice,” Addie explain- 
ed — “the first time when he was very 
young. I don’t think his first wife was 
quite a lady,” she said, lowering her 
voice as if the beeches might be given 
to gossiping. 

Percival would not have been happy 
as a dweller in the Palace of Truth. He 
thought, “Then Mr. Blake’s two. wives 
were alike in one respect.” 

“And though Oliver was a dear boy,” 
she went on, “ he hasn’t been very steady. 
He has had a good deal of money at one 
time or another, and wasted it ; and he 
and mamma don’t get on at all.” 

“Ah 1 I dare say not.” 

“ Naturally, she thinks more about Lot- 
tie and me; and Oliver has been very 
tiresome. He was to be in the business 
with papa, but he didn’t do anything, 
and he got terribly into debt, and then 
he ran away and enlisted. Papa bought 
him off, and found him something else 
to do ; but mamma was dreadfully vexed : 
she said it was a disgrace to the family.” 

“ Did he do better after that ?” 

“ Not much,” Addie owned. “ In fact, 
I think he has spent most of his time 
since then in running away and enlist- 
ing. I really believe he has been in a 
dozen regiments. We were always hav- 
ing to write to him, ‘ Private Oliver Blake, 
Number so and so, C company, such a 
regiment.’ It didn’t look well at all.” 

(Addie, as she spoke, remembered 
how her mother used to sneer, “No 
doubt some day you’ll meet your brother 
in a red jacket with a little cane, his cap 
very much on one side, and a tail of 
nursemaids wheeling their perambula- 
tors after him.” Such remarks had been 
painful to Addie, but even then she had 
felt that Mrs. Blake had cause to com- 
plain.) 

“He was always bought off, I sup- 
pose?” said Percival. 

“Once papa declared he wouldn’t. 
Oliver went on very quietly for a little 
while, and was to be a corporal. Then 
he wrote and said he was going to de- 
sert that day week, and he was afraid it 
might be very awkward for him after- 


*'FOR PERCIVALF 


55 


ward, especially if he ever enlisted again, 
but he would take his chance sooner than 
stop. Papa knew he would do it, so he 
had to buy him off again.” 

” But is this going on for ever ?” 

“ No : for the last three years Oliver 
has been in dreadful disgrace, I don’t 
- exactly know why, and we were not al- 
lowed to mention his name at home. 
But I don’t care,” said Addie impetu- 
ously: ‘‘if he were ever so foolish, and 
if he had enlisted in every regiment un- 
der the sun, he’s my brother.” 

‘‘And Lottie.^ Does she stand by him 
as valiantly ?” 

‘‘ Oliver is nothing to Lottie : he never 
was. He is nine years older than she 
is, and when she would really begin to 
remember him he and mamma were 
always quarrelling. Besides, he always 
petted me — not Lottie. And now she 
despises him because he doesn’t stick 
'to anything and get on. No — poor old 
Noll is my brother, only mine. No one 
else cares for him, except papa.” 

‘‘Mr. Blake hasn't given him up, 
then ?” 

‘‘Oh, he is angry with Oliver when 
they are apart, but he always forgives 
him when they meet. He was really 
angry ihis last time, but Oliver wrote 
to him, and they made it up. Only, my 
poor old Noll is to be sent over the sea to 
Canada with a man papa knows some- 
thing of.” 

‘‘And this is good-bye? But surely 
they can’t mind your meeting him be- 
fore he goes?” 

‘‘They do,” said Addie. ‘‘Papa and 
mamma saw him in London ten days 
ago, and he was only forgiven on con- 
dition that he went away quietly and 
said nothing to any one. As if he wasn’t 
sure to tell me ! Mamma knows how it 
has been before: she thinks if papa or 
I saw him alone he might get round us, 
and then he wouldn’t go. If he is steady 
and does well there, he is to come and 
see us all in two years.” 

‘‘That isn’t very long, is it?” said Per- 
cival cheerfully. It was evident to him 
that this black sheep would be much 
better away. 

‘‘ Long ! Oh no ! Only, you see, Oliver 


won't do well unless there’s something 
very converting in Canadian air. So I 
may as well say good-bye to him, may- 
n’t I ? Mind, Percival, you are not to 
(think he’s wicked. He won’t do any- 
thing dreadful. He’ll spend all the mon- 
ey he can get, and then drift away some- 
where.” 

‘‘A sort of Prodigal Son,” Thorne sug- 
gested. 

‘‘Yes. You won’t understand him — 
how should you ? You are always wise 
and well-behaved, and a credit to every 
one — more like the son who stayed at 
home.” 

‘‘ Not an attractive character,” was his 
reply. And he remembered Horace a few 
hours before: ‘‘Not to-day, old fellow: 
you lecture me, you know.” He was 
startled. ‘‘Good Heavens!” he thought, 
‘‘am I a prig ?” 

Addie laughed: ‘‘Well, I am trusting 
to you to understand me, at any rate. 
Just like Oliver I” she went on. ‘‘ He 
came once, years ago, to stay with old 
Miss Hayward, who left us the house, 
and he knew something then of the man 
at this cottage; so he tells me to meet 
him there, without ever thinking how I 
should get to the place by myself at nine 
at night. Hush ! what’s that ? — Oh, Noll ! 
Noll !” 

A man’s voice was heard at a little 
distance singing, and she darted for- 
ward! her eyes alight with joy. Percival 
followed, slackening his pace and listen- 
ing to Mr. Oliver Blake’s rendering of 
‘‘Champagne Charlie is my name.” It 
ceased abruptly. He doubted what to 
do, took a step or two mechanically, and 
came suddenly out on the open space at 
the farther side of the wood, where was 
the cottage in question. Addie had run 
forward and forgotten him. He strolled 
with elaborate unconsciousness to some 
palings near by, turning his back on 
Addie and her brother, rested vhis fold- 
ed arms there and gazed at the placid 
landscape. Below ran the little stream 
by which he had loitered in the morning, 
hurrying now in a straighter course, like 
an idle messenger who finds that lime has 
fled much faster than he thought. The 
river -mist hung white above the level 


56 


^*FOR PERCIVALR 


meadows, and it seemed to Percival as 
if Nature, falling asleep, had glided into 
a pallid and melancholy dream. The 
last gleams of day were blending with a 
misty flood of moonlight, beneath which 
the world lay dwarfed and dark. On 
the horizon a little black windmill with 
motionless sails stood high against the 
sky, looking like a toy, as if a child had 
set it there and gone to bed. 

To Percival, as he stood, came the 
sound, though not the words, of a rapid 
flow of talk, broken by a short, often- 
recurring laugh. But at last there was 
a pause, and the two came toward him. 
He turned to meet them, and saw in the 
moonlight that Oliver Blake was big and 
broad-shouldered, with black hair, curl- 
ing thickly under a jaunty cap, and bright 
restless eyes. Addie had her arm drawn 
fondly through her brother’s. 

“Oliver,” she said, “this is Percival: 
you have heard me speak of him.” 

Oliver bent his head in a blunt, con- 
strained way and looked doubtfully at 
the other. Percival, who was going to 
extend his hand, withheld it, and made 
a stately little bow in return. 

“That’s very magnificent,” said Ad- 
die to him. — ^“Why, Noll,” she laughed, 
“you needn’t be so cautious. Percival 
knows. He is to be trusted.” 

“Ah !”-,,said Oliver. “What does that 
feel like, now ?” 

“What does what feel like?” said 
Thorne as they shook hands. “Being 
trusted, do you mean ?” 

“Ay. Being trusted or being to be 
trusted. I don’t know either sensation 
myself.” 

“Not likely, dear boy,” said Addie, 
“with your way of going on. And yet 
Mr. Osborne must have trusted you, or 
how did you get the money and get 
away ? You weren’t to have any till you 
sailed, ^ere you ?” 

“Wo^d you like to know?” said Oli- 
ver, his dark eyes twinkling. “I tried 
to persuade him — no good. Then I told 
him a — don’t be horrified — it was a very 
fine specimen of fiction — ” 

“Oliver!” 

“Which is no doubt set down to the 
governor’s account.” 


“ Did he believe you ?” 

“ Well, he didn’t know what to do. I 
don’t think he would have, only if it 
wasn’t true it was so stupendous, you 
see. He hesitated, and that made him 
relax his watchfulness a little. So I gave 
him the slip and pawned part of my out- 
fit, which we bought together the day be- 
fore.” 

“You bad boy !” 

“ I left him a bit of a note. I told him 
that if he held his tongue I would surely 
be there again to-morrow, we’d get the 
things, and no one would be any the 
wiser. But if he made a row he might 
whistle for me, and catch me if he could.” 

“And you don’t know the effect of that, 
I suppose?” said Percival. 

“Well, no. I read it over when I’d 
done to try and judge it impartially. 
And I made up my mind — considering 
the character he’d had of me — that if 
I were Osborne I should say that Blake 
meant to back out of his bargain with 
all he could lay his hands on, and was 
trying to secure two days’ start. — What 
do you think I did, Addie ?” 

“Something silly. I’ve no doubt.” 

“Well,” he said, looking at her with 
an admiring gaze, which partly explain- 
ed to Percival the secret of her fondness 
for her brother, “/ thought it was rather 
clever. I just popped in the letter I had 
from you, and your photograph, and if 
that doesn’t convince him, I give him 
up.” 

"Oh, Noll! How you? What 

is he like?” 

Blake burst out laughing : “ Listen to 
her I A man has got her photograph : 
he instantly becomes an interesting ob- 
ject. — Oh, he isn’t a bad-looking fellow, 
Addie. I dare say he’s glaring at you 
now through his spectacles.” 

“ Spectacles ! Oliver, you’ve no busi- 
ness to go giving my photograph to all 
sorts of people. And I hate him too, 
because if it hadn’t been for him per- 
haps you wouldn’t have been going 
away to Canada.” 

“What then?” said he philosophical- 
ly. “Your mother would have had a 
dear friend on the point of starting for 
the Cannibal Islands.” 


'^FOR PERCIVAir 


57 


Percival began to feel a little anxious 
about time, and to wonder when the 
real leave - taking was to commence. 
He looked at his watch after the man- 
ner of a stage - aside, and Addie took 
the hint. 

Five minutes later she came toward 
him with bent head and averted eyes : 
“I’m ready, Percival.” But they had 
not gone a dozen steps when she sob- 
bed, “Oh, my poor Noll!” and rushed 
back. As young Thorne looked after 
her he heard the quick spurt of a match. 
Oliver had turned on his heel already 
and was lighting his cigar. “ Heartless 
brute 1” said Percival. 

The verdict was unjust. Oliver had 
taken infinite pains to secure this glimpse 
of his sister, but since it was over it was 
over. He loved her, and she knew it, 
but he was not the man to stand senti- 
mentally staring at Addie’s back as she 
disappeared into the shadows of Langley 
Wood. Now, Percival could not have 
failed in such a matter, though he might 
have thought no more about it than did 
Oliver Blake. 

When he and Addie were once more 
on their way he occupied himself solely 
with the slight difficulties of her path, but 
before they had gone halfway she was 
making an effort to talk in her usual 
style, and succeeding fairly well. They 
were just at the place where the paths 
branched off, and Percival was stoop- 
ing to disentangle her dress, which was 
caught on a bramble. As he raised him- 
self he heard an approaching step, and 
quick as thought he laid his hand on 
Addie’s arm. A couple of yards farther 
and they would be in the one path, and 
must meet the newcomer. Standing 
where they were, it was an even chance : 
he might pass them or might go the other 
way. Addie stood breathless, and Per- 
cival’s heart gave a quick throb, more 
for Addie’s sake than his . own. But, 
after all, it might be no one who knew 
them, and in that dim light — 

The moon glided with startling swift- 
ness from behind a fleecy cloud and 
shone on their white faces. The man, 
passing close by, started and stepped 
back, recovered himself with a mutter- 


ed ejaculation, and said, “ Fine evening, 
Mr. Thorne,” as he passed. 

“Very,” Percival replied. “Good- 
night.” 

The other returned a “Good -night, 
sir,” and disappeared in the twilight. 

“He knew you,” said Addie. She 
looked frightened. Her parting from 
Oliver had unnerved her : difficulties 
which she had made light of m the 
happiness of anticipation seemed more 
formidable now. Standing there in the 
white moonlight and dim shadows of the 
wood, she suddenly realized the strange 
and doubtful aspect her expedition with 
Percival Thorne must wear to ordinary 
eyes. Nor was her companion likely to 
reassure her. An air of sombre resolu- 
tion was more in his line than the light- 
hearted confidence which would have 
treated the whole affair as a trifle. He 
was, as Addie herself had called him, 
“ well behaved.” She would have trust- 
ed him to the death, only just at that mo- 
ment a little touch of happy recklessness 
would have been a greater comfort to 
her than his anxious loyalty. But Per- 
cival could never be reckless : deliber- 
ately indifferent he might be, but reck- 
less never. 

“He knew you,” said Addie, as they 
resumed their walk. 

“ Yes, but he would not know you. It 
does not signify much,” was Percival’s 
reply. 

“But he does know me.” 

“ Impossible ! Oh, you mean he khows 
your name.” 

She nodded : “ He often passes our 
house. Always on Thursday, when a 
lot of people go by. Isn’t it a market 
somewhere ?” 

“ Brookley market. Oh yes, he would 
go there, no doubt.” 

“ Once or twice I have been walking 
on the road, and he has driven past. I 
know his face quite well, and I’m sure — 
I should think — he knows mine.” 

“Very likely he may not have recog- 
nized you in this half-light,” said Percival. 

She shivered : “ He did. I felt him 
look right through me.” 

“ Well, suppose he did. After all, there 
is no reason why we should not take a 


58 


*^FOR PERCIVALF 


walk together on a summer evening if 
we like, is there ?” 

“Where is he going?” said Addie. 
“ To the cottagp 

“ Oh dear, no ! There are endless paths 
in the wood. He will turn off still more 
to the right : he cuts off a corner so going 
from Fordborough to his home.” 

“Who and what is he?” was Miss 
Blake’s next question as they emerged 
into the road. 

“ Silas Fielding. He farms a little bit 
of old Garnett’s land, and I rather think 
he rents an outlying field or two of my 
grandfather’s. A horsey sort of fellow. 
I am not particularly fond of Mr. Silas 
Fielding,” said Percival, and they walk- 
ed a little way in silence. 

“You mustn’t come any farther,” said 
Addie. “ Percival, I don’t know how to 
thank you.” 

, “ Don’t do it, then. I see no occasion.” 

“ But I see occasion — very great occa- 
sion.” 

“ Then we will consider it done,” said 
Percival. 

Mrs. Wardlaw’s house was very near. 
“I’m not late, am I ?” said Addie. 

' He looked at his watch : “ A little more 
than a quarter to ten — very good time. I 
shall watch you along this last little bit of 
road, and see you let in. Good-night.” 

“ Good-night.” She went quickly away, 
and he waited as he had promised. She 
looked back at him once, and saw him 
stand, dark and motionless like a bronze 
statue. She reached the garden -gate, 
and just as a farmer’s gig, with one man 
in it, dashed past, she ran up the little 
flight of steps, knocked, and was instant- 
ly admitted, as if Mrs. Wardlaw stood in- 
side with her hand on the latch. Per- 
cival, seeing this, turned to begin his 
homeward walk, but as the gig rattled 
up to him its speed was slackened. 

“Mr. Thorne! Isn’t it Mr. Percival 
Thorne ?” 

It was the young artist driving back to 
the farm in Mr. Collins’s old gig, and in- 
ducing Mr. Collins’s old horse to go at a 
headlong pace. “ I thought it was you 
standing in the moonlight,” he said. 

.“Can’t I give you a lift?” 

Percival accepted, and they started 


off, if possible more vehemently than 
before. 

“I must look sharp,” explained the 
young man whose name was Alf, “ or I 
shall be late at the farm.” 

“You have only just come from Ford- 
borough ?” said Percival. 

“ No. I put up the horse, and stayed 
later than I meant. I’d no idea that 
dull little hole of a town could wake up 
so. Why, it is flapping with flags from 
one end to the other. I never saw such 
a lot of tramps and drunken men in my 
life.” 

“Charming idea you have of waking 
up !” 

“And brass bands and gypsies,” the 
other went on. “ When I wanted to 
come away the hostler was drunk and 
couldn’t find the horse, and I couldn’t 
find the gig ; that is, I could find a score 
all exactly like this one, but as to know- 
ing which of all the gigs in the yard be- 
longed to old Collins, I couldn’t have told 
to save my life.” 

“You got it at last, I suppose?” said 
Thorne. 

The other was cautious: “Well, I got 
this. The man put the horse in some- 
how, and then he was so far gone he 
began to talk to himself and undo the 
harness again. I believe he thought 
he’d put in a pair by mistake, and was 
trying to take one out. However, I 
stopped that, and got away after a 
fashion.” 

“ They are early birds at the farm, no 
doubt ?” 

“Early? Rather! At half- past nine 
old Collins creaks up stairs, and Mrs. 
Collins goes into the kitchen and rakes 
out the cinders for fear of fire. I was 
out late one night last week, and she 
couldn’t wake the old man up to let me 
in. It was twenty minutes to eleven.” 

“Did she come herself?” said Perci- 
val. “ I know Mrs. Collins by daylight, 
but I can’t imagine Mrs. Collins aroused 
from her first sleep.” 

Where ignorance is bliss.’ The 
dear old lady kept me on the doorstep 
for ten minutes or so while she was try- 
ing to make up her mind whether she 
would keep her nightcap on, or whether 


*^FOR PERCIVALF 


59 


,she would take it off and put on the 
light -brown front she ordinarily wears. 
■ At last she made up her mind to retain 
the nightcap and add the front by way 
of a finish. But I have it on her own 
authority that she was flurried and all 
of a shake, so she didn’t carry out her 
idea skilfully. The cap was half off and 
the front was only half on. I saw her 
forehead getting lower and lower as she 
spoke to me.” 

‘‘Could she ever forgive you for see- 
ing her so ?” 

‘‘ Oh yes. I’m rather a favorite, I think. 
She beamed on me just the same the 
next morning.” 

‘‘She did?” said Thorne. ‘‘A won- 
derful woman !” 

‘‘ I think I shall ask her for a lock of 
her chestnut hair to-morrow before I go, 
to show that my faith in it is — well, as 
implicit as ever. Ah ! by the way, I got 
my letter. I thought most likely I should. 
I leave the first thing in the morning.” 

‘‘Sorry to hear it,” said Percival. But 
it occurred to him that the artist’s de- 
parture would prevent any talk the next 
day of the circumstances of their meet- 
ing that evening. He jumped down, with 
hasty thanks to his new friend when they 
came to the little gate. ‘‘ You’ll be in a 
ditch if you don’t look out,” he called 
after him. 

‘‘All right!” was shouted back, and 
old Collins’s gig vanished into the outer 
darkness with the young artist, whom 
Percival Thorne has never chanced to 
meet again to this day. 

He let himself in with his key and 
hurried up to the house. The door 
which opened on the terrace was un- 
fastened as usual. The lights were 
burning in the drawing-room, but no 
one was there, and the bright vacant 
room had a strange ghostly aspect, a 
little island of mellow radiance in the 
vast silence and darkness of the night. 
He felt like one in a dream, and stood 
idly thinking of the young painter rat- 
tling in old Collins’s gig to Willow Farm ; 
of Silas Fielding striding across the mea- 
dows with thoughts intent on his bar- 
gains; of Oliver Blake turning in with 
a yawn when his cigar was done; of 


Addie forcing back her unshed tears 
and hiding deep in her heart the well- 
spring of her tenderness for her poor 
Noll. He had not done justice to Ad- 
die Blake. Something of the feeling of 
underlying beauty, unsought or ignored, 
which he gained from his artist -friend’s 
talk in the morning, had come to him 
in a slightly altered form with Addie 
that evening. With Alf it was the every- 
day world which revealed new beauty — 
with Addie it was shown in what Perci- 
val had taken for a prosaic and com- 
monplace character. He found himself 
wondering whether he might not have 
failed to do justice to others besides Ad- 
die. He had looked far away for his 
ideal, and had found a fair faint dream, 
when it might be that the reality was 
close at hand. Since the wayside had 
blossomed with unexpected loveliness, 
what grace and charm and hidden trea- 
sure might be his prize who should win 
his way into the fenced garden of Sissy’s 
sweet soul I 

He started from his reverie, and was 
surprised to find that it had lasted only 
two or three minutes : it seemed to him 
as if he had been dreaming a long while 
in that bright loneliness. He walked to 
the window, with ‘‘Where can they all 
be ?” on his lips. And for an answer to 
his question, standing at the far end of 
the terrace was Sissy. As he hurried 
through the hall to join her the library- 
door opened an inch or two and a voice 
inquired, ‘‘Who is that?” 

‘‘It is I — Percival,” he answered in 
haste. 

At the word ‘‘ Percival ” the door open- 
ed wider, and Mr. Thorne looked out: 
‘‘Oh ! where is Sissy ?” 

‘‘On the terrace.” 

‘‘And Horace?” 

‘‘ I don’t know,” still chafing to be gone. 

‘‘ Sissy ought to come in. It’s a quar- 
ter-past ten.” He looked up at the great 
hall-clock. *‘ Yes, a quarter-past ten, and 
she will be catching cold.” 

‘‘I’ll tell her.” 

‘‘ Did you come in for a shawl for her? 
Take her one — anything.” 

‘‘ I will ;” and Percival made a dash 
at the row of pegs and caught down the 


6o 


*^FOR PERCIVALR 


first thing which looked moderately like 
a cloak. Then he escaped. 

Sissy was coming to the house, but so 
leisurely that the journey was likely to 
take her a considerable time. "At last!” 
she said as he came up to her: "Why, 
which way — Oh, it's you, Percival!” 

" You thought I was Horace ?” he said 
as he put the cloak round her. 

"Yes, for the moment I did. What 
are you muffling me up like this for?” 

"Orders,” said Percival. " My grand- 
father said you were to come in, and that 
I was to bring you a shawl.” 

"What is the good of this thing if Pm 
to go in ?” 

" Very sensibly put. Evidently no good 
at all. So we will turn round and go to 
the end of the terrace and back, unless 
you are tired.” 

She was not tired. 

"And you took me for Horace ? I al- 
ways said we were alike.” 

"You are not a bit alike.” 

" Oh no, of course not.” 

"Don’t be absurd,” said Sissy. "Any- 
body’s like anybody if it’s pitch dark and 
they don’t speak.” 

"I rather suspect Horace and I might 
be alike if it were a half-light, and if we 
did speak,” said Percival. " Remember 
the photograph. But where is Horace 
all this time ? What have you been do- 
ing with yourself?” 

"He’s somewhere about,” said Sissy. 
" First of all, we had a little croquet. 
Then it got too dark to play, so I went 
to see after Aunt Harriet. Her head 
was worse ; so she said she would go 
to bed.” 

" Poor old lady ! Best thing she could 
do. She’ll be better to-morrow, I hope.” 

"Then Horace and I thought we would 
go and look up his old nurse. She has 
been teasing me ever so long, wanting to 
see ‘ Master Horace,’ and it’s only across 
a couple of fields. But she wasn’t at 
home, and the cottage was shut up.” 

"Gone to Fordborough for the day, 
most likely.” 

" I dare say. She has a niece there. 
Then we came back, and Horace didn’t 
much want to go in, because of this after- 
noon, you know ; so we stayed in the 


long walk, and he smoked and we lis- 
tened to the nightingales.” 

"Very delightful,” said Percival. "The 
long walk and the nightingales, I mean.” 

"And then there was a little pinkish 
light in the sky, and he thought there 
was a fire somewhere. So he went into 
the park to get a better view, and after I 
had waited for him a little while I came 
up here and met you.” 

A quick step was heard on the gravel 
behind them. 

"Oh, here you are!” said Horace. 
"The fire doesn’t seem to be anything. 
Sissy, after all. The light got fainter 
and fainter, and it’s all gone now.” 

"Where did you think it was?” Per- 
cival inquired. 

"Well, I thought from the direction 
that it must be at old Garnett’s Upland 
Farm, but it can’t have been much. So 
you have got back ?” 

"Yes. Hadn’t we better go in ? You 
must mind what you are about, Hor- 
ace, though it is warm. That cough of 
yours — ” 

"Stuff and nonsense about my cough !” 
But he turned to go in nevertheless. 

" By the way,” said Percival, as he 
walked between them, " you’ve been out 
all the evening : does any one know I’ve 
been away ?” 

"No,” said Sissy. "Why, don’t you 
want — ” 

"I would rather they didn’t,” he re- 
plied. (The stars in their courses seem- 
ed to fight for Addie and her secret, had 
it not been for that untoward meeting 
with Silas Fielding.) 

Horace wore a knowing expression. 
He was rather pleased that his lecturer 
should be compelled to seek a pledge 
of secrecy from him. It made him feel 
more on a level with the well-conducted 
and independent Percival. " All right !” 
he said. 

"You may trust me,” in a softly earn- 
est voice on the other side. 

"Thank you both,” said Percival, but 
his eyes thanked Sissy. 

"What have you been after?” ask- 
ed Horace. " I thought most likely you 
were off to the friend you met this morn- 
ing.” 


*^FOR PERCIVALF 


6i 


The astonishing way in which circum- 
stances conspired to aid in guarding the 
mystery ! “ I have been with him,” said 
Percival. 

(We value the opinion of others too 
much very often for our own peace. 
Queer, unsubstantial things those opin- 
ions often are. *' I have been with him.” 
Sissy felt a little glow of kindliness to- 
ward the unknown : it might have been, 
” I have been with her.” She was preju- 
diced in his favor, and sure that he was a 
nice fellow. Horace was ready to stake 
something on his conviction that he was 
a bad lot, this fellow Percy had picked 
up, and that Percy knew it.) 

Percy was still warm with the chival- 
rous devotion which had been kindled in 
him that evening. It was reserved for 
the colder morning light to reveal to him 
that what with Lottie on the hillside and 
Addie in Langley Wood he was plung- 
ing into little adventures which were 
hardly consistent with the character of a 
most prudent young man. Yet such was 
the character he was supposed to have 
undertaken to support in the world’s 
drama. 

They reached the door, and Horace 
went in, but Sissy lingered yet a moment 
on the threshold. ” Isn’t it all beautiful ?” 
she said, taking one more look: “if it 
could only last!” 

Percival smiled : ” Sissy, have you 
learnt that ?” 

“November — bare boughs and bit- 
ter winds — I hate to think of it,” she 
said. 

“ I would say, * Don’t think of it,’ but 
it would be no good,” he replied. “ When 
the thought of change has once occurred 
to you while you look at a landscape, it 
is a part of every landscape thencefor- 
ward. But it gives a bitter charm.” 

“Spring will come again,” she said; 
“but death and parting and loss — they 
are so dreadful ! And growing old ! Oh, 
Percival, why must they all be ?” 

He shrugged his shoulders: “The 
whole world echoes your ‘ Why ?’ Sis- 
sy, I wish I could help you, but I can’t. 
1 can only tell you that I understand 
what you feel. It is very terrible look- 
ing forward to age — to loss of powers. 


[ hopes and friends. One feels sometimes 
as if one could not tread that long gray 
road to the grave.” 

Sissy shivered as if she saw it drawn 
out before her eyes. 

“ But after all it may be brighter than 
we think,” he went on after a pause. 
“ There is joy and beauty in change, as 
well as bitterness. If everything in the 
world were fixed and unalterable, would 
not that be far more terrible ? As it is, 
we have all the possibilities on our side. 
Who knows what gladness may grow out 
of endless change?” Yet even as he 
spoke he was conscious of a wild, im- 
potent longing to snatch her — she was 
so delicate and sweet — from beneath the 
great revolving wheels of time, with a 
cry of 

Stay as you are, and be loved for ever. 

But the poet’s very words carry the sen- 
tence of doom in the memory that the 
blossom to which they were uttered must 
have perished years ago. 

“ Sissy,” he said suddenly, “ surely there 
cannot be much suffering reserved for you. 
Oh, poor child ! I wish I could take it all 
in your place.” He spoke in all earn- 
estness, yet could he have looked into 
the future he would have seen that her 
suffering would not be long, but very 
keen, and his not to bear, but to inflict. 


CHAPTER XI. 

MEANWHILE. 

Percival Thorne had never thought 
much on the subject of revenge. He 
rather took it for granted that deliberate 
revenge was an extraordinary and alto- 
gether exceptional thing. People give 
way to bursts of passion which pass away 
and leave no trace : they are so hot with 
fury which comes to nothing at all that at 
the first glance it seems as if the anger 
which bears fruit must be something dif- 
ferent in kind. But it is possible that if 
Percival had considered the matter he 
might have arrived at the conclusion that 
revenge does not depend only on inten- 
sity of passion, but on intensity of pas- 
sion and aptness of opportunity together. 


62 


^'FOR percival: 


Disembodied hate soon dies unless it is He had had fair warning at the birth- 
fiendish in its strength. day party. Lottie, smarting with humilia- 



tion, had looked him full in the face with I from the consciousness of one’s own 
a flash of such bitter enmity as springs I folly. And Lottie’s eyes conveyed their 


ADUIK STOOD BREATHLESS, AND BEKCIVAL’S HEART GAVE A QUICK THROB.” — Page 57. 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


63 


meaning well. That very afternoon, 
when Percival looked up as he lay on 
the turf at her feet, they had been most 
eloquent of love. “Foolish child!” he 
had thought, “she is only seventeen to- 
day, and childish still.” When he en- 
countered the sudden flash of hate he 
would hardly have been surprised at 
some instant manifestation of it. Had 
she carried a dagger, like 

Our Lombard country-girls along the coast, 

vengeance might have come at once. 
But she spoke to him later in her ordi- 
nary voice, and touched his hand when 
she bade him good - night ; and it was 
only natural to conclude that nothing 
would follow her glance of fury. Some- 
thing of bitterness might linger for a 
while, but Lottie was only seventeen, 
and that afternoon she had loved him. 

He was right enough. There was noth- 
ing fiendish in Lottie’s hatred : it would 
soon have spent its strength in helpless 
longings and died. But that very night 
it flew straight to Horace Thorne, and 
unobserved found shelter there. It as- 
sumed a shape not clearly defined as yet, 
but a shape which time would surely re- 
veal. It drew Lottie to the young man’s 
side while the tears of pain and shame 
were hardly yet dry upon her burning 
cheeks. 

In spite of the talk on her birthday 
morning, Lottie hardly understood the 
relative positions of the Thornes. Per- 
cival was disinherited and Horace was 
the heir. Naturally, she supposed that 
Horace was the favorite, and that the old 
man was displeased with Percival. She 
concluded that the small income of which 
the latter had spoken was probably a 
grudging allowance from Mr. Thorne. 
His grandfather protected and patron- 
ized him now, and no doubt it would be 
in Horace’s power to protect and patron- 
ize him hereafter. Lottie hardly knew 
what she dreamed or wished, but she felt 
that she should indeed be avenged if the 
dole might in any way be regulated by 
her caprice, given or withheld according 
to the mood of the moment. 

Meanwhile, Percival drifted contented- 
ly on, unconscious that Lottie had vow- 


ed vengeance and Sissy devotion. Mr. 
Thorne went about with an air of furtive 
triumph, as if he were tasting the sweet- 
ness of having outwitted somebody. Hor- 
ace divided his time between divers 
pleasures, but contrived to run down to 
Fordborough once just before he went 
yachting with a friend. He took to let- 
ter-writing with praiseworthy regularity, 
and yet his accustomed correspondents 
were curiously unaware of his sudden 
energy. He too had his look of triumph 
sometimes, but it was uneasy triumph, 
as if he were not absolutely certain that 
some one might not have outwitted him. 
Oliver Blake on board the good ship 
Curlew had passed the period of sea- 
sickness, and was flirting desperately 
with a lively fellow-passenger, while Ad- 
die followed him with anxious thoughts. 
About this time his father went in secret 
to consult a London doctor, and came 
away with a grave face and a tender 
softening of his heart toward his only 
son. A visit to his lawyer ensued, and 
of this also Mrs. Blake knew nothing. 
The girls played croquet as before, Lot- 
tie won the ivory mallet on the great 
field-day of the Fordborough club, and 
Mrs. Rawlinson and Miss Lloyd hated 
her with their sweetest smiles. Week 
after week of glorious weather went by. 
Brackenhill lay stretched in the sleepy 
golden sunshine, and the leaves in Lang- 
ley Wood, quivering against the uncloud- 
ed blue, had lost the freshness of the 
early summer. The shadows and the 
sadness were to come. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Well, what's gone from me? 

What have 1 lost in you? — R. Browning. 

Percival awoke one day to the con- 
sciousness that the world was smaller, 
grayer andiflatter than he had supposed 
it. At the same moment he became 
aware that a burden was lifted from his 
shoulders and that a disturbing element 
was gone out of his life. 

This is how the change in the uni- 
verse was effected. Percival met God- 
frey Hammond, and they talked of in- 


64 


*^FOR PERCIVALR 


different things. As they were parting 
Hammond looked over his shoulder and 
came back : “ I knew there was something 
I wanted to ask you. Have you heard 
that the young lady with the latent nobil- 
ity in her face is going to be married ?” 

“What young lady?” said Percival 
stiffly. He knew perfectly well, and 
Hammond knew that he knew. 

“Miss Lisle.” 

“No, I hadn’t heard. Who is he?” 

“ The happy man ? Lord Scarbrook’s 
eldest son.” 

“Who told you ?” 

“You are incredulous, but I fear I can’t 
soften the blow. The man who told me 
heard Lisle talking about it.” 

“There’s no blow to soften,” said Per- 
cival. “ I assure you I don’t feel it.” 

“Ah,” said Hammond, “there was 
once a man who didn’t know that his 
head had been cut off till he sneezed — 
wasn’t there ? Take great care of your- 
self, Percival.” And nodding a second 
farewell Godfrey left him, and Percival 
went on his way through that curiously 
shrunken world. 

And, after all, the blow was premature. 
Mr. Lisle had only talked of a probabil- 
y ity which he earnestly hoped would be 
realized. 

But Percival did not doubt it. He 
tried to analyze his feelings as he walk- 
ed away. He had known but little of 
Judith Lisle, but when first he saw her 
face he felt that the vague dream which 
till then had approached, only to elude 
him, in clouds, in fire, in poems, in flow- 
ers, in music, had taken human shape 
and looked at him out of her gray eyes. 
Percival had no certain assurance that 
she was his ideal, but from that time for- 
ward he pictured his ideal in her guise. 


He did not dream of winning her. Mr. 
Lisle had boasted to him one evening, as 
they sat over their wine, of all that he 
meant to do for his daughter, and of the 
great match he hoped she would make. 
Percival had a feeling of peculiar loyalty 
to Mr. Lisle as the friend whom his dead 
father had trusted most of all. He could 
not think of Judith, for he could never be 
a fit husband for her in Mr. Lisle’s eyes. 
Had he been heir to Brackenhill — But 
he was not. 

So he acquiesced, patiently enough. 
He did not attempt to do anything. 
What was there to do? By the time 
that he had struggled through the crowd 
and got his foot on the first round of that 
ladder which may lead to fortune, Judith 
would probably be married. He did not 
even know certainly that she was the 
woman he wanted to win. Why should 
he force the lazy stream of his existence 
into a rough and stony channel that he 
might have. a chance — infinitesimally 
small — of winning her. 

Yet there were moments of exaltation 
when it seemed to him as if his acqui- 
escence were tame and mean— as if his 
life would miss its crown unless he could 
attain to his ideal. At such moments he 
felt the stings of shame and ambition. 
Yet what could he do ? The mood pass- 
ed, and left him drifting onward as be- 
fore. 

But now all thought of Judith Lisle was 
over. Even if she were in truth his ideal 
woman, it was certain that she was no 
longer within his reach. That haunting 
possibility was gone. All that it had 
ever done for him was to make him dis- 
satisfied with himself from time to time, 
and yet he found himself regretting it. 


« 


*^FOR PERCIVALr 


65 


CHAPTER XIII. 

N the early au- 
tumn there 
was sorrow 
in the little 
white house 
at Fordbor- 
ough. Mr. 
Blake died 
suddenly, 
and after 
his death it 
appeared 
that he had 
known of his 
danger and 
made ready 
for the end. 
He had car- 
ried his ter- 
rible secret in his heart, and worn a smile 
on his face, and kissed his girls, and no- 
ticed how the acacia and the laburnums 
were growing, and rated John the gar- 
dener, who was drunk one evening when 
he came to shut up the bright little obser- 
vatory. He read the reports of Mr. Glad- 
stone’s speeches with his usual care, made 
his usual jokes, and never uttered a word 
that was not altogether prosaic and com- 
monplace. And at last he passed away 
quite quietly, as if he had a business ap- 
pointment with Death. It was not hero- 
ism, but it seemed a little like it, this 
calmness in facing the inevitable mys- 
tery in the midst of that unconscious 
little circle. 

There was sorrow in the little villa, but 
there was bitterness too. Mr. Blake’s 
will was not to be disputed, but his 
widow could find no words too strong 
to condemn it. It had been made when 
his heart was softened toward his son. 
He had provided for his wife and daugh- 
' ters, but Oliver’s share was larger. Mrs. 
Blake could not forgive this, nor could 
she pardon the dead man that the earn- 
5 


ings of his life were less than she had 
calculated ; and as soon as she could she 
left Fordborough. 

Mother and daughters travelled to- 
gether no farther than to London. There 
Addie went to her father’s sister, to await 
Oliver’s return from exile, and Mrs. Blake 
and Lottie started for Folkestone, talking 
of choosing some quiet place on the Con- 
tinent where they might spend the winter. 

If there was sorrow at the little white 
villa, there was bitter trouble at Brack- 
enhill. The slow weeks wore away be- 
neath an overhanging cloud, whose sul- 
len gloom might at any moment be 
broken by a fatal flash. It was not dif- 
ficult to say what was the matter with 
Horace that autumn — a neglected cold, 
a terrible cough, a hurried consultation 
of doctors, a sentence of banishment or 
death. Poor Horace! Mrs. James Thorne 
went abroad with her son, and Aunt Har- 
riet came back from town almost heart- 
broken. 

But what was amiss with Sissy ? She 
went about the old house with drooping 
head and listless step. The delicate color 
fled slowly from her face, and left a cheek 
pale as a tea-rose. A word, a look, would 
send her hand to her heart. She was 
restless and anxious, and there were 
dark shadows beneath her eyes. Any 
remark on her low spirits was met with 
a sudden gayety as like her old gladness 
as fireworks are like sunshine. She de- 
clared that her appetite was good, and in- 
deed she sometimes ate with an eager cra- 
ving very unlike a healthy hunger. She 
persisted that she slept even better than 
usual, and it was true that her eyes un- 
closed more reluctantly when morning 
came ; but Aunt Harriet was sure that 
hours of wakeful tossing ended in the 
heavy slumber of exhaustion. “If one 
eats well and sleeps well,” said Sissy, 
“there’s not much amiss. You are dear 
kind people, but oh what nonsense you 
do talk I” 



66 


FOR PERCIVALF 


Mr. Thorne said, “ The child is fretting 
about Horace. He’ll never fret about 
her.” But this explanation did not sat- 
isfy Mrs. Middleton. The first symp- 
toms of Sissy’s mysterious malady had 
preceded Horace’s peril ; and she said 
so. 

“/know,” Mr. Thorne replied, nod- 
ding his head. “ All the same, Horace is 
at the bottom of it. You don’t under- 
stand. You can’t. Well, I’ll see what 
I can do.” 

“For Horace? If you get the chance,” 
said Mrs. Middleton bitterly. “ Oh, God- 
frey, I sometimes think that neither you 
nor I shall do much more for Horace 
and Sissy.” 

Mr. Thorne’s sudden ejaculation was 
like an angry snap. He poked the wood- 
fire furiously till the sparks went up the 
chimney in a fierce stream, then, poker 
in hand, he looked up at the old lady’s 
melancholy face : “ How can you stand 
there and talk such folly ? This isn’t the 
first time the boy has been ill : he’ll come 
back to you all right in the spring. Of 
course he will ! He must !" This with 
another assault on the big log. 

“I wish I dared think so,” said Mrs. 
Middleton. “But I was dreaming of 
poor Jim last night : you sent him away 
just the same, and — ” 

“And he came back strong and obsti- 
nate enough to insist on making a fool 
of himself in spite of me — just as Hor- 
ace will : see if he doesn’t !” was the 
quick reply. “And you know what a 
poor, puny fellow Jim was. Don’t talk 
rubbish ! Sissy too ! As if girls didn’t 
always have their little imaginary ail- 
ments ! She isn’t going to die — not she !” 

“Imaginary!” said Mrs. Middleton. It 
was only one word, but the tone spoke 
volumes. 

“Oh, she believes in it,” her brother 
replied. “Get a doctor. But whatever 
he calls it, the plain English will be want 
of occupation.” 

“ Sissy had better have been brought 
up to scrub floors and make bread per- 
haps,” was the retort. 

“Why? At that rate I might as well 
give up magnolias and stephanotis, and 
'take to growing buttercups and dog- 


roses. They would be hardier. No, I 
like my hot-house flowers. God knows 
I don’t want to lose this one. I tell you 
she is fretting about Horace. I’ll talk to 
her.” 

“If she is fretting about Horace — ” 
said Mrs. Middleton, as she went away. 

Her brother got up and unlocked a 
drawer in his writing-table. He took 
out a folded paper and looked at it, 
without attempting to open it : merely 
to hold it in his hand gave him a sense 
of power. Formidable as it looked, it 
was nothing — not worth the paper it was 
written on — unless, indeed, he touched 
the bell, which was within easy reach, 
summoned a couple of servants, and put 
that formal trembling signature of his at 
the end. Then that blue paper would be 
worth — Brackenhill. 

He handled it, laid it down, eyed it 
from a distance, walking softly to and 
fro, came near again, and stood looking 
at it. 

“What would Hardwicke say?” And 
the thought of that respectable lawyer, 
astonished and discomfited, made Mr. 
Thorne smile, as he did sometimes, with 
one side of his mouth only. He took 
another turn and came back. 

“ He’d say that three generations of 
Hardwickes were trusted by the Thornes 
till old Godfrey Thorne had a job to do 
he was ashamed of, and took it to Mitch- 
ell of Stoneham.” 

Yet another turn and another halt. 

“ He sha’n’t say it. He shall make 
the will himself. He shall never say 
that I was ashamed of doing justice to 
Percival. He shall do it — not just yet, 
with Horace ill and away, but it shall 
be done.” 

For a moment he looked half inclined 
to throw Mr. Mitchell’s work on the fire, 
but he ended by locking it in the drawer 
again. “I won’t sign it,” he said. “There 
would be endless talk if I made any al- 
teration in my will just now; and I should- 
n’t care to do it, either. But it shall lie 
there till I can go to Hardwicke. I shall 
be happier knowing that five minutes 
will make all right if there should be 
any need.” 

Under these thoughts lay the con- 


^^FOR PERCIVALR 


67 


sciousness that there might be no need 
whatever for the will. The contempt 
with which he treated Mrs. Middleton’s 
forebodings was not as real as he wished 
it to be. He felt the loneliness of his 
position very keenly, and was aghast at 
the widening circle of death in which he 
stood as if his existence were charmed. 
He was almost ready to believe that his 
own life flourished in some subtle atmo- 
sphere which was deadly to those around 
him. He was strong and well, conscious 
of no failure or decay from year to year, 
and the bright young lives which had 
grown up in his shadow had passed away 
or were passing now. He shivered at the 
thought of his horrible solitude as he 
wanned his veined hands at the blaze. 
He had gloried in his power over Hor- 
ace and Brackenhill, and now Horace 
was gliding out of his reach intq the 
shadows. He had plotted against the 
lad, yet it was dreadful to think that the 
bright, handsome fellow, who shot so well 
and rode so fearlessly, and made friends 
wherever he went, should be beyond all 
services but those of a nurse for a little 
while, and then of the gravedigger and 
the parson, and should not care for any 
landed estate except the seven-foot one 
which Harold Godwinsson offered to his 
foe. No one had such cause for think- 
ing ill of Horace as had old Mr. Thorne, 
but he was sorry for the boy as he sat by 
the fireside, and the more sorry because 
he felt himself a conqueror. 

Thank God, he had Percival still ! No 
sorrow could cut him to the heart while 
Percival remained — Percival, who had 
never known what a day’s illness meant, 
who was almost as independent of him 
in his prosperity as was Horace in the 
shadow of death : almost, but not quite. 
He could make Percival a rich man yet, 
and he would do it. 

His soul was filled with a great long- 
ing to look on his boy’s face then and 
there. He felt as if his dreams of death 
and loneliness would vanish if he might 
but touch the hand whose soft strong 
grasp he knew so well. Percival had 
very beautiful hands, firm, smooth, olive- 
skinned — the hands of an idle man. 
" Ah ! they shall never have any need 


to work,” smiled Mr. Thorne as he held 
his own to the fire. And though Perci- 
val was indifferent to many of the things 
which young men generally enjoy, he 
had some tastes which his grandfather 
could gratify. Dick Garnett had said 
that there was some pleasure in giving 
that young fellow a good glass of wine 
— he knew when he had one ; and a 
dinner too — he could dine, not merely 
feed. Old Garnett considered that most 
people, and especially young people, 
took what they supposed was needful to 
support existence in an ignorant manner 
which was beneath contempt. But Per- 
cival was an exception to this rule, and 
Mr. Thorne found pleasure in recalling 
Garnett’s verdict. True, these tastes and 
enjoyments were material, low ; but if he 
could not apprehend Percival in his no- 
bler desires, it was somethfng to seize 
him thus. Let the boy put on his tragic, 
musing face and air of unfathomable 
mystery, let him roam where he would 
in dreams : he must needs come home 
to dinner. And if behind that somewhat 
romantic exterior lurked a budding epi- 
cure, a connoisseur when priceless vint- 
ages should be in question, would he not 
think kindly of the old man who should 
save him from many a day of hashed 
mutton and cheap sherry ? 

Arriving at this point in his medita- 
tions, Mr. Thorne smiled again, and 
went in search of Sissy. He found her 
curled on the rug in the drawing-room 
with a novel in her hand. As he ap- 
proached she gathered up all her ener- 
gies and smiled. 

“Sissy,” he said abruptly, “are you 
fretting about Horace ?” 

“ I ? Oh no ! no !” 

He shook his head : “ I fear you are.” 

“No, indeed — no. I am sorry he is 
ill, poor Horace !” 

“Ah yes. But I didn’t mean fretting 
about his illness only.” 

“ I know, I know. There is nothing 
else — really nothing. You must do what 
you like. You know best.” 

“ I ought to be just, you know,” said 
Mr. Thorne. “But I don’t want to be 
hard on Horace, and I don’t want you 
to suffer.” 


68 


^*FOR PERCIVALr 


“ Don’t think of me : there is no need. 
You must decide.” 

‘‘You haven’t quarrelled with him ?” 

‘‘ Quarrelled ! I never dreamt of such 
a thing.” 

‘‘ Because if this were a little tiff,” said 
Mr. Thorne, ‘‘there might be a chance 
of a reconciliation. Horace has been 
to blame, but he will never marry that 
girl.” 

‘‘What girl ?” said Sissy mechanically. 

‘‘This Miss Blake.” 

She sat pulling at the tassel which hung 
from a cushion close by: ‘‘No — I don’t 
think he will.” There was an under- 
current of painful meaning in her tone, 
and her little face was suddenly flushed 
with a rosy glow. 

‘‘ Then it is his deceit you cannot for- 
give — his word, solemnly, voluntarily 
pledged to ‘me, and broken before the 
day was done? But are you sure you 
will not change — will not pardon him 
some day?” 

Sissy leant against an arm-chair, and 
laid her face down on her curved arm, as 
if she were weary : ‘‘ Don’t mind me — 
don’t. You can decide.” 

The door at the far end of the room 
opened, and a servant announced that 
Mr. Garnett was outside. He wanted to 
speak to Mr. Thorne for a moment, but 
•would not get off his horse. The old man 
went. When the door closed behind 
him Sissy sat up. Her lips were white, 
her hands trembled : ‘‘ He’ll find me out 
some day, and he’ll be so angry ! Oh, 
and Horace ! I shall never be a hero- 
ine — never. Judith wouldn’t have been 
frightened at such a little bit of a secret. 
If they scold me, what shall I do ? No 
one ever has scolded me, and I couldn’t 
bear it — I know I couldn’t.” 

She rocked herself to and fro, with her 
little hands tightly clasped and her mel- 
ancholy eyes fixed on the empty air. 
‘‘ Poor Horace !” she said to herself. 
Then she was still, as if she were try- 
ing to find some little shred of courage 
somewhere in her heart. ‘‘ It is all for 
Percival,” she whispered at last, ‘‘for 
Percival — Percival!” And across her 
face there passed the pale remembrance 
of a smile. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

GODFREY HAMMOND PRESCRIBES. 

Godfrey Hammond paid a flying visit 
to Brackenhill, and was startled at the 
signs of Sissy’s illness. ‘‘What is amiss ?” 
he asked. 

Mrs. Middleton shook her head. 

‘‘Can’t you find out? Something is 
wrong: she is literally pining away.” 

‘‘ I know it.” 

‘‘Won’t she tell you ?” 

‘‘She persists that there is nothing 
whatever the matter with her.” 

‘‘Have you had a doctor?” 

‘‘ She won’t see one, but I spoke to Dr. 
Grey about her. He said, ‘ Try cod-liver 
oil,’ but she won’t touch it.” 

‘‘ Cod-liver oil I The man’s an idiot I” 
and Godfrey Hammond walked off with 
a thoughtful frown. 

H e watched his opportunity, and caught 
Sissy in the library the next afternoon. 
Mr. Thorne was safely shut up in his 
study with his agent, Mrs. Middleton 
had gone into the village to see a sick 
woman; so Hammond had it all to him- 
self. Sissy was turning the pages of a 
magazine, and there was silence for a 
minute while he skimmed a column of the 
Tmies. Then she looked up, suddenly 
conscious that his eyes were fixed on her. 

‘‘ I’m sorry to see you are not looking 
so well as usual,” he said. , 

‘‘ There’s nothing the matter with me, 
really.” 

‘‘Pardon me, but I think there is.” ^ 

‘‘ No, indeed, no ! Why I have such 
an appetite — sometimes ” (seeing Ham- 
mond’s quick glance and arching brows), 
‘‘and I sleep so well it’s quite a trouble 
to get up. And if I eat well and sleep 
well,” said Sissy, clinging to her poor 
little formula, ‘‘ there can't be very much 
the matter with me, you know.” 

‘‘ Hm !” said Godfrey. ‘‘ Mr. Thorne 
and Mrs. Middleton are rather inclined 
to agree with me, I think.” 

He sat on the arm of a chair, swinging 
one foot with an affectation of careless- 
ness which his watchful eyes belied. 
They were light gray, and not very 
noticeable in themselves, but half that | 
intensity of expression would have made ! 
eyes like Lottie’s absolutely burn. Sissy 


*^FOR PERCIVALr 


69 


came and knelt on the seat of the chair, 
and looked up at him with an anxious 
face. 

“They always ag^ee with you,” she 
said with innocent flattery. “You can 
make them think just what you like. 
Do tell them not to mind me. I should 
be quite well if they would only let me 
alone — I should indeed. 1 am telling 
you the truth. Oh, don’t you know I am 
telling you the truth ? Don’t let them 
tease me any more.” 

“Then, Sissy, you must get well, you 
know,” said Hammond; and as he spoke 
he put his left arm round the girl’s waist. 
He had been a young man at Bracken- 
hill when Sissy was a tiny child, and 
many a time had she sat on his knee 
and kissed him. But when she grew up 
he had dropped the familiar “Sissy” in 
speaking to her, fancying that it sound- 
ed paternal and as if he were very old 
indeed. He could not address her as 
“Miss Langton,” but he had carried the 
art of speaking to her without using any 
name at all to a high degree of perfec- 
tion ; and if a name were absolutely 
necessary, he would call her “ St. Cecil- 
ia,” a title which she had earned one 
day at the piano. He had grown formal 
in manner too, not assuming any rights 
as an old friend. But now, moved by a 
quick impulse, he called her Sissy and 
put his arm round her waist, and, as he 
did so, he felt her heart fluttering, and 
his own gave a little answering throb. 

Sissy was surprised, but grateful too. 
This tenderness from Godfrey Ham- 
mond, who was ordinarily so cold, 
moved her strangely. Just when she 
longed for sympathy, to find it where 
she would never have sought it was a 
boon like waters in a thirsty land. Here 
was one who might continue kind even 
if others were estranged. It was pleas- 
ant to feel that protecting arm about her, 
though she found it bewildering too as 
she looked at Hammond’s hand, white 
and with a great signet -ring upon it. 
Her own lay passively in his firm palm, 
clasped by his slim hard fingers. “Oh, 
I shall get well,” she whispered softly. 

“ Sissy,” he said, “shall I tell you what 
is the matter with you?” How plainly 


he could feel that fluttering heart ! As 
he spoke there was a pause, and then a 
frightened bound, and looking down he 
saw that even her lips grew white as he 
spoke. She believed in his keen saga- 
city : it was the fashion at Brackenhill. 
“The child has some foolish little se- 
cret,” he thought, but he hastened to 
say, “You want change, my dear girl : 
everybody does sometimes. Shouldn’t 
you like to go away — I don’t mean for 
any of your seaside nonsense : I hate the 
seaside, shrimps and bathing-machines 
and lath-and-plaster crescents — but real- 
ly away out of your every-day life ? Ven- 
ice — Florence — Rome, — what do you 
say?” She was looking up, with pleas- 
ure dawning in her eyes, and Hammond, 
encouraged, went on: “Or why not far- 
ther still — say to the East at once — eh. 
Sissy ? Alexandria — Cairo — turbans and 
veils — camels and deserts — tents — Arabs 
— minarets — palm trees — pyramids, and 
the rest of it ? Like Eothen, you know.” 

She drank in his bald, disjointed talk 
as if he brought tidings from Paradise : 
“Ah, I should like that!" 

“Well, why not?”. said Hammond, ob- 
serving her closely. “What have these 
good people to do, that they need live as 
if they were rooted here ? Shall we get 
them to take you away. Sissy ? No dull 
English winter, but summer weather till 
June comes round again.” 

All the brightness was gone at once, 
like April sunshine blotted out by a rain- 
cloud: “Oh no: I think not. They would- 
n’t like it, and perhaps it is best as it is. 
I don’t really believe I want anything, 
if they would only let me be quiet. But 
it is very good of you to think about me 
— Godfrey.” The name came with just 
a slight hesitation, and there was a little 
awakening tremor of her hand in his, as 
if she feared that the protecting clasp 
might be abruptly withdrawn. 

It was not. Hammond only said, “Ah ! 
you wouldn’t care to go abroad just at 
present ?” 

She caught at his words : “No — not 
just now, with poor Horace away and 
ill, you know. Some other time, I think, 
I should like it very much indeed.” 

She would not have minded letting 


70 


*^F0R PERCIVALF 


Godfrey think that Horace’s illness was 
the cause of her trouble, though she had 
denied it to Mr. Thorne. Godfrey knew 
how like brother and sister they had 
been ; what more natural than that she 
should be sad when her brother was in 
danger? But Hammond had seen the 
quick delight, followed by as quick de- 
spondency, and was not to be blinded. 
“She wants to escape from the people,” 
he mused, still with his arm about her, 
“not from the place. Some foolish, in- 
nocent little secret — something one could 
most likely set right in about five min- 
utes if one only knew it; but she is afraid 
to speak, and tortures herself with all 
sorts of imaginary terrors. Poor child ! 
if one could but take her away from these 
worthy folks, and from her troubles too !” 

His silence alarmed Sissy : “ Don’t be 
vexed with me if I am stupid, Godfrey : 
I don’t think I can help it.” 

“Vexed!” Something in his tone 
startled both himself and her, and she 
looked up and met his eyes. For a mo- 
ment their souls drew very close to each 
other — for one moment : later they would 
have laughed at the. mere idea, but it was 
true — their two lives were within a hair’s 
breadth of melting into one. Her wist- 
ful eyes, her trouble, her loneliness, her 
supreme charm of beautiful youth, would, 
I verily believe, have drawn a surprising 
question from Hammond’s lips could he 
but have been certain of the answer. 
But if Sissy should laugh at him ? 

She would not have laughed : I think 
she would have said “Yes.” I am sure 
she would have said “Yes ” if she could 
have married him then and there, have 
left all her perplexities behind her, and 
have travelled with him into the wonder- 
ful far-off East of which he talked. Per- 
cival had gone away, to Miss Lisle or to 

— ah ! no matter ; and when a girl is 
conscious of being helpless and alone 
the temptation to find a refuge in a mar- 
riage built on something less than love 
may assail her with almost irresistible 
force. Esteem, gratitude, implicit trust, 

— will not these suffice ? Surely they 
must. There is nothing to alarm her 
in the lifelong pledge : the one thing 
she desires is to feel that her refuge is 


lasting and secure. She weighs his kind- 
ness, not against the joy of perfect mar- 
riage, but against the sadness of her lone- 
ly life. Yet it will not do, though it may 
be useless to say so — it will not do if she 
has learnt the meaning of Love, hardly 
if she is capable of it. 

So it was well for Sissy that Hammond 
hesitated, fearing to be ridiculous, and 
then became aware that the tide of pas- 
sion and sympathy had ebbed as quickly 
as it flowed, and that the moment which 
had held such startling possibilities had 
fled, just as common moments fly. He 
sighed a little, partly in regret, partly in 
relief. True, it might be that he had 
missed something of Paradise, but on 
the other hand it was very likely that he 
had escaped making a fool of himself. 
Balancing the one against the other, 
there he remained — Godfrey Hammond, 
forty-four, with a reputation for sagacity, 
saying with fluent ease, “ Vexed, my dear 
Sissy ? no : why should I be ? How can 
you imagine such a thing? But I still 
think a little change would — ” And so 
on, loosening his clasp of her little hand 
as he spoke. 

Mrs. Middleton waylaid him before he 
left Brackenhill: “What do you think, 
Godfrey ? Shall I take her to town and 
consult some one? Whom would you 
recommend ? Or what shall I do ?^ Give 
me your advice.” 

“ You won’t take it if I do,” said God- 
frey, rolling up his umbrella with a neat- 
ness which was almost miraculous. 

“Why not ? What is it ?” 

“Well,” said Godfrey, “if I were you 
I should — leave her alone.” 

“ Leave her alone ? Stand by and see 
her getting paler and thinner every day ?” 

“ Didn’t I tell you ? Very well,” said the 
oracle, “she wants change — something 
or somebody. Ask Percival down.” 

Now Hammond knew that Percival 
had lost his dream. 


CHAPTER XV. 

“AS OTHERS SEE US.” 

A DAY or two later Mrs. Middleton 
found Sissy looking over photographs — 


*^FOR PERCIVALF 


71 


a very harmless occupation, which would 
have passed unnoticed but that the girl 
started and half closed the album as her 
aunt came in. She was aware of her 
foolishness when it was too late, and did 
her best to mend it. With a careless lit- 
tle laugh she laid the book down open at 
the portrait which she had been examin- 
ing. It was the photograph Percival had 
given her — Bertie Lisle, the handsomest 
man in her album. 

Sissy followed the direction of the old 
lady’s eyes. “ Isn’t he perfect she said. 
‘‘Shouldn’t you like to see him. Aunt 
Harriet 

Aunt Harriet expressed a moderate 
willingness to look at the young man 
if he came in her way. 

“I wish he would come in my way,” 
says Sissy frankly. ‘‘ I like to see very 
beautiful people. I wish he would walk 
in at that door now.” 

‘‘ I don’t,” said Mrs. Middleton. ‘‘God- 
frey hates the very name of Lisle : he 
can’t bear that man’s father. It would 
be very awkward to have to remark to 
your charming young hero, ‘ I’m afraid 
you won’t think me civil if I don’t ask 
you to dinner, but I’m sure you won’t 
think my brother civil if I do.’ Un- 
pleasant, wouldn’t it be?” 

‘‘ Dinner !” Sissy tossed her pretty 
head. ‘‘ I wasn’t thinking of anything 
so 'commonplace as dining with him. I 
suppose he does dine. Dear me ! I never 
thought of that before.” 

‘‘ I should think he did. But what 
were you going to do with him, then ? 
Waltz ?” 

‘‘ No, I don’t care so much about waltz- 
ing as I used to, I think.” And then, af- 
ter a pause, ‘‘ Nobody waltzes like Per- 
cival.” 

‘‘What, then? If you don’t want him 
for dinner-parties or balls — ” 

‘‘Oh dear, no!” said Sissy — ‘‘nothing 
of the sort. No, I was thinking he would 
do very nicely to run away with.” 

‘‘My dear Sissy ! What you mean ?” 

‘‘Something like Jock o’ Hazeldean 
and she sang a snatch of the old song. 
‘‘ How could one say ‘ No ’ — how could 
one be expected to say ‘ No ’ — to him, 
with a face like that ?” And she point- 


ed to the album, where Bertie looked out 
with a face almost girlishly beautiful, it 
is true, but with a lively, laughing auda- 
city which might qualify him to be the 
hero of such an exploit as she suggest- 
ed. ‘‘Who could wonder if one went 
off with him to the world’s end ? Sup- 
pose William came in with a message, 
‘ Mr. Lisle’s compliments, m’m, and he’s 
waiting with a chaise-and-four at the lit- 
tle gate, and the horses are rather fresh 
this morning wouldn’t you catch up 
your tatting and go ?” 

‘‘ With four frisky horses and no bon- 
net on ? No, thank you. Mr. Lisle might 
wait for me till he was gray or till I went 
out in a hearse. He might drive me 
then,” said Mrs. Middleton cheerfully; 
‘‘I shouldn’t mind.” 

Sissy laughed: ‘‘Well, and I think 
perhaps I might manage to say ‘ No ’ 
if William were the ambassador. On 
second thoughts that wouldn’t do. No, 
Mr. Bertie Lisle should come to the 
window, and look in just as he is look- 
ing there, and beckon quietly — you would 
happen to be facing the other way — and 
lay his finger on his lips. I should go 
out as if nothing had happened, and in 
half a minute you would look out and see 
me flying down to the little gate, with 
Bertie Lisle by my side, and the chaise- 
ancf-four in the distance. And so adieu, 
Aunt Harriet!” 

She sketched the little scene so vivid- 
ly, and threw such dramatic fervor into 
the tone of her farewell, that the old 
lady started and glanced nervously over 
her shoulder, as if she expected to see 
young Lisle on the terrace with his face 
pressed against the window. ‘‘ Don’t 
talk such dreadful nonsense, child.” 

‘‘ Nonsense ! Is it nonsense ? Oh, I 
think it’s just as good sense as a great 
many things people say and do.” And 
there was another burst of song : 

She's o'er the Border, and awa' 

Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean. 

‘‘O’er the Border: that’s it, exactly,” 
said Sissy seriously. ‘‘That’s just where 
I want to be.” 

‘‘What, in Scotland ? For that’s what 
it would be, I suppose, as you start on 


72 


**FOR PERCIVALr 



the different side,” Aunt Harriet replied, 
conscientiously working it out. ‘‘Oh, 
my dear, you wouldn’t like that. I’m 
sure,” with an anxious desire not to 
leave an invalid’s whim unsatisfied, but 


to reason it away if it could not be grant- 
ed. ‘‘ Scotland at this time of the year ! 
Next summer perhaps.” 

Sissy stared and laughed : ‘‘ Scotland ! 
Aunt Harriet, who wants to go to Scot- 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


73 


land ? Pray don’t be so fearfully geo- 
graphical with your Border : you’ll be 
telling me something about the popu- 
lation and productions of Berwick-upon- 
Tweed next.” 

‘‘Why, I thought you meant — ” 

‘‘Then I didn’t,” said Sissy promptly. 
‘‘Where is the border, I wonder? It 
seems to me to be all round us, shutting 
us in like a wall. Didn’t you ever feel it ? 
And what is there on the other side ? It 
can’t be just the same, surely : no, that 
would be too dreadful. Oh, Jock o’ Ha- 
zeldean, where are you ? Come quickly, 
Jock, and take me 

O'er the Border, and awa'." 

‘‘My dearest Sissy ! really — ” 

‘‘My dear aunt Harriet, there’s no 
harm in wishing to be o’er the Border, 
is there ? And haven’t I heard you 
say, scores of times, that it’s very dis- 
agreeable to travel without a gentleman ? 
There ! don’t look so puzzled. I don’t 
suppose Jock will come while I’m in the 
mood; but {/‘he does — {/"he does — ” 
And Sissy went off with a laugh and a 
swift step which died into silence and 
a lagging gait as soon as the door had 
closed behind her. 

Surely, we must be rather narrow and 
monotonous beings (I speak modestly 
for the Human Race), to judge by the 
anxiety which our friends display if we 
show the least tendency to deviate from 
our ordinary groove. ‘‘ Ah ! I thought 
So-and-So didn’t seem quite like him- 
self,” or ‘‘herself,” as the case might 
be ; and every one looks mysterious or 
shocked. I dare say they are right. We 
are bound so closely to this rather wea- 
risome self that it is advisable to make 
the best of it. We cannot get rid of the 
Something which is partly what we are 
now, and partly what other people im- 
agine us, and partly what circumstances 
force us to be, and partly what we once 
were and never by any possibility can 
be again. Sometimes when we are alone 
with that Something, gazing thoughtfully 
at it, a gleam of light will fall on it as 
it turns in its sleep and show a face 
that is altogether strange. It is cum- 
bered with dead loves, dead friendships, 


dead hopes, dead faiths. What is it ? 
‘‘Yourself,” they say. Ah no ! It is not 
myself, but I feel that I am bound to it, 
and it is useless to drag it into follies in 
a vain attempt to get free. Better to 
come back and walk in the appointed 
way ; and since we must live together, 
and its power is great to help or harm, 
let it be as fair and pure as I can make it. 

Mrs. Middleton was greatly troubled 
and perplexed by Sissy’s uneasy bursts 
of merriment. ‘‘She isn’t like herself,” 
the old lady thought. ‘‘What could she 
mean by talking in that random way 
about Jock o’ Hazeldean ?” It might 
have passed for mere nonsense but for 
the certainty that Sissy had been secret- 
ly studying Bertie’s photograph. ‘‘She 
never can have seen him anywhere and 
— and fallen in love with him,” thought 
the simple-minded old lady. ‘‘Oh no, 
impossible !” It did not occur to her that 
Percival had brought the photograph to 
Brackenhill. Nor would she have un- 
derstood the interest which Sissy might 
take in seeking beneath the features of 
Bertie Lisle for the unknown features of 
the girl she believed to be her rival ; for 
I doubt if she remembered that there was 
a Miss Lisle at all. 

‘‘Dear me! it’s very puzzling,” she said 
to herself as she clasped the album and 
laid it down. ‘‘I wish Godfrey Ham- 
mond were here, or even Percival. I 
can’t make Sissy out. I wish she would 
see Dr. Grey, or if she would only try 
the cod-liver oil it would be something.” 

Consequently, it was a real pleasure 
to Aunt Middleton when she saw a neat 
portmanteau in the hall, and heard that 
Mr. Percival had met Mr. Thorne just 
inside the gate, and was walking up. A 
minute earlier Sissy had stood on the 
same spot, gazing at the neatly-engrav- 
ed name, ‘‘Percival Thorne,” as if it 
had a snake-like fascination for her. In 
a quarter of an hour, she thought, Perci- 
val would be there — would stand before 
her with his dark eyes shining and his 
hand outstretched, stately and handsome 
like a king as he was — her king, living 
and dying. Only a few minutes and she 
would hear his voice, musical and full, 
whose tones always conveyed ideas i)f 


74 


*^FOR PERCIVALF 


leisure and abundant kindliness. And 
her heart within her was heavy as lead. 

“ Now it will all come out,” she said to 
herself as she turned away; ‘‘and what 
will Percival do ?” Surely he would^stand 
by her. If he would, all else might go to 
utter wreck and she be unconscious of 
loss. But if not — 

She stood by a window on the stairs 
and looked out across the park. Every- 
thing was gray and still. The year had 
lost its splendor as of royal robes, and 
wore the aspect of -4 dethroned king 
waiting in apathetic silence till the end 
should come. There is something very 
mournful about autumn when its time is 
nearly spent. It lies stretched in faint 
gleams of sunshine, as if it dreamed of 
glory that is gone, clasping some poor 
remnants of the beauty and verdure of 
the summer. But it is so despairing that 
it will make no effort to retain even these. 
At the first breath of winter it lets its 
handful of yellow leaves escape, and 
gives up life with its last flowers. Sissy 
felt something of this as she looked out 
and saw two figures coming along the 
sodden drive. They talked as they 
came — with unusual earnestness she 
thought — pausing more than once, while 
the taller bent his head as if in eager at- 
tention. Surely Fate would not be so 
cruel as to betray her before Percival 
crossed the threshold, and rob her of 
the touch of his hand, his smile and 
word of greeting ! 

She would have known that she was 
in no danger from their talk could she 
have overheard it. Mr. Thorne was elo- 
quent about the iniquities of one of his 
tenants, and his grandson was feigning 
an interest he did not feel. As they drew 
near the long gray house young Thorne 
looked up and thought, ‘‘Sissy will be 
somewhere about;” and while he said, 
‘‘I don’t see how you could have acted 
otherwise — half measures don’t do with a 
fellow of that stamp,” his eyes wandered 
over the windows, which glittered feebly 
in a passing gleam of sunlight. The door 
opened as they went up the steps, and 
Aunt Middleton came out to greet them. 
Percival was hurried into the hall, ques- 
tioned and made much of, but he looked 


round for another greeting, and was sud- 
denly aware that he had been looking 
forward to it ever since he had thought 
of coming down to Brackenhill, perhaps 
even earlier. For the first time in his life 
he hesitated to ask for Sissy, but after 
a moment Mr. Thorne looked round; 
‘‘Why, where’s our little girl? — Sissy, 
here’s Percival. Sissy!” 

She had but to turn the corner of the 
stairs, and she stood like a fair vision 
above them. She did not speak, but her 
eyes met Percival’s, and a sudden rose- 
color flushed her face. Some people have 
features which blur and distort the mean- 
ing of their souls. Hesitation looks like 
sullenness, shyness like awkward pride, 
gratitude like coldness — nay, very Love 
himself wears so clumsy a guise that he 
is apt to be scared at his own aspect. But 
if Sissy’s lips and eyes failed exactly to 
convey her thought, it was because they 
lent it an added loveliness. As she came 
down, step by step, she was anxious and 
perplexed, and these doubtful feelings 
had for expression a shy and lingering 
grace in which the painter might have 
found a picture, the poet a poem. Per- 
cival, though neither, found both. Even 
Mrs. Middleton was struck. ‘‘ Why, Sis- 
sy,” she said, ‘‘you look like a queen I” 

Percival smiled, and while she was yet 
a couple of steps above him he knelt on 
one knee on the lowest stair and kissed 
the little hand which she held out. Tears 
swam in Sissy’s eyes, and there was a 
lump in her throat She dared not at- 
tempt to speak, but with the other hand 
she timidly touched his waves of strong 
short hair. 

‘‘Ah ! we shall be all right now,” said 
Mr. Thorne to himself with a silent 
chuckle. ‘‘ I needn’t have feared that 
any one was fretting for Horace.” 

The pretty picture lasted but for a mo- 
ment, and all tongues were loosened as 
they went into the drawing-room. Sissy 
sat on the hearth-rug leaning against 
Aunt Harriet. Whenever she spoke 
Percival’s eyes sought hers with swift 
attention, and once, while Mrs. Middle- 
ton was wandering round an anecdote, he 
stooped and silently gave her a screen, 
and both were conscious that their hands 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


75 


touched. Sissy laughed and talked the 
quicker for that touch. There was a 
feverish brightness in her looks and 
words : it was like the vivid flitting of 
a butterfly, if a butterfly could be con- 
scious of the frailty of its life and love- 
liness, and make little distracted dashes 
here and there, looking airily brilliant all 
the while. 

"Time to go and dress,” said Mrs. 
Middleton at last ; and Sissy sprang up 
and went hastily away. 

Mr. Thorne looked at his watch : "Ah ! 
I must speak to Duncan.” (Duncan was 
the butler.) " I think he and I know 
your taste — don’t we, Percival ?” and 
he looked proudly at the grandson who 
had a taste which was worth considering. 

" I’ll trust you, sir,” said the young 
man with a smile, "as far as it is possi- 
ble to trust any one in such a matter.” 

He turned to Mrs. Middleton as soon 
as they were alone : " So your last news 
of Horace was better ?” 

"Rather,” she replied; "but I am afraid 
to build much on one hopeful letter. Still, 
I am very thankful.” 

"You said Sissy was ill.” 

"So she is, though she is wonderfully 
bright this afternoon. Don’t you think 
she looks ill ?” 

" Hm ! She looks like a perfectly beau- 
tiful and delicate flower — as if a touch 
might destroy her. Yes, perhaps she 
does look ill, but it is the most bewitch- 
ing, the most extraordinarily charming, 
illness that, ever was. If it were only 
catching, I think she would be mobbed.” 

" I’m afraid in a day or two you won’t 
have any doubt about her,” said Mrs. 
Middleton. 

"Ah ! ” Percival gazed thoughtfully at 
the fire. Suddenly he lifted his eyes to 
the old lady’s face: "My grandfather 
doesn’t prescribe for her, does he ?” 

She was horrified at the question : 
"Good gracious! no. You don't sup- 
pose I should let him go near her with 
his nasty poisons?” 

" No, I didn’t really suppose it. It was 
only an idea which occurred to me. Sissy 
looks a little like the stories one reads 
of people who are under the influence 
of some powerful drug.” 


Mr. Thorne was curious in the matter 
of poisons, and kept a rather dangerous 
little medicine-chest under lock and key 
in his own room. If he were ill — which 
he seldom was — he liked a remedy which 
had to be accurately measured by drops, 
and of which an overdose would be fatal. 
Better still, he liked the handling of lit- 
tle carefully-stoppered phials containing 
so much death. Horace thought it an 
idiotic whim for any one to have ; Mrs. 
Middleton shuddered at it ; Percival un- 
derstood it and smiled : " Gives him a 
sense of power which was precisely 
the fact. 

"She sha’n’t be under the influence 
of any of his drugs,” said Aunt Harriet. 
" I spoke to Dr. Grey about her, and he 
said, ‘ Try cod-liver oil.” 

"More harmless, no doubt,” smiled 
Percival, "but much more unpleasant.” 

"She won’t take it,” said Mrs. Mid- 
dleton plaintively; "and when I told 
Godfrey Hammond, he said Dr. Grey 
was an idiot.” 

"Ah? I am rather of his opinion. 
What did he recommend for Sissy ? I 
know you swear by him, and he always 
has something to suggest. What did 
Hammond tell you to do ?” 

Aunt Harriet had the words of Mr. 
Hammond’s prescription in her ears, 
"Ask Percival down,” but she could 
not very well repeat them with Perci- 
val’s dark glances fixed upon her face. 
The guileless old lady was confused. A 
faint color mounted to her wintry cheek, 
and there was a little sound of nervous 
laughter in her voice: "Oh, I don’t know. 
He didn’t say very much. I think he 
fancied she would be better if she had a 
little change and society, perhaps. You 
see. Sissy is young, and — and — we are 
not much company for her, Godfrey and 
I, you know.” She was floundering pain- 
fully, and knew it. " Is that a needle on 
the carpet, just by your foot ?” 

■ Percival sought for it anxiously, but in 
vain. 

" I can’t see it, either, now,” said Mrs. 
Middleton : "the light must have shone 
on it just where I was standing;” and the 
deceitful old lady went back to the pre- 
cise spot on the hearth-rug where she 


76 


<^FOR PERCIVALF 


had been before. “I was just opposite 
that vase, I know;” and eyed the car- 
pet intently with her head a little on one 
side. ‘‘ How very funny ! /can’t see it 
now. Don’t bother yourself any more, 
Percival : I really think it can’t have 
been a needle, after all.” 

‘‘Do you think not?” said Percival, 
with a slight quiver at the corner of his 
mouth. ‘‘ Hadn’t we better make sure ? 
They are nasty things to lie about. I 
remember my nurse used to say so. 
Suppose I ring for the candles, and we 
have a hunt?” 

‘‘Oh no, I don’t think we need. I’m 
nearly sure it wasn’t a needle. Never 
mind it.” 

‘‘Are you quite sure?” he persisted. 
‘‘I’m afraid you are saying it to spare 
me. Suppose it sticks into your old tab- 
by cat ? Let’s see if we can’t find out the 
mystery about this needle. Aunt Harriet : 
my eyes are tolerably sharp.” 

‘‘A great deal too sharp,” she answer- 
ed quickly: ‘‘leave the needle alone.” 

Percival got up, looked her deliberate- 
ly in the face, and they both laughed. 

' ‘‘ I don’t think you are looking quite 
the same as usual,” she said, carrying 
the war into the enemy’s country. 

‘‘What is the difference?” 

‘‘ I noticed it while we all sat talking 
here. You don’t look quite so — so con- 
tented as you always used.” 

‘‘ I’ve nothing to make me discontent- 
ed,” he answered in a tone which for him 
was a little hasty. ‘‘ I am just the same 
as ever — rather more contented if any- 
thing ; at least with rather more cause 
to be so.” 

‘‘ That may be,” she answered ; ‘‘ espe- 
cially as ‘ contented ’ wasn’t exactly the 
word I meant.” 

‘‘What, then ?” 

‘‘Well, lazy: you don’t look quite so 
indolent as you did.” 

‘‘Don’t I ?” said Percival, who of late 
had been conscious of faint stirrings of 
a novel restlessness. ‘‘ I didn’t know I 
had given proofs of vehement energy 
since my arrival this afternoon.” 

‘‘ No, I don’t think you have. Go this 
minute and get ready for dinner,” said 
Mrs. Middleton. 


CHAPTER XVI, , 

PRINCIPLES AND PERSONS. 

Dinner was over, the wine and fruit 
were on the table. Sissy was peeling 
one of those late pears which, though 
they may be tolerably good when noth- 
ing better is to be obtained, are an in- 
sult to the melting, juicy fruit which we 
ate in the golden summer. Solid, dura- 
ble qualities are all very well in their 
way — let us be thankful for them, and 
lay up our winter stores of pears and ap- 
ples — but oh the banquets of July and 
August ! a moment’s enjoyment and then 
a memory. 

Percival sipped his wine with a grave 
satisfaction which his grandfather was 
delighted to see. Mrs. Middleton was 
right: there was a change in our hero. 
He had awakened to a more practical 
appreciation of the world and what it 
held. Having discovered that it was 
limited, and that his power was limited 
too, nothing remained but to ascertain 
what joys were within his reach, to make 
the most of those, and to close his eyes 
to impossible visions faint and far away. 
Percival had begun to think about stor- 
ing winter fruit. He had substituted a 
lower aim for an indefinite desire, but in 
outward appearance he was even more 
like a girl’s hero of romance than he had 
been. A little more decision and defi- 
ance in his glance, a slight shadow un- 
der his eyes, making them more sombre 
than before, a little more readiness of 
look and speech, — there was no great 
change. 

He broke the silence with a very com- 
monplace remark : ‘‘So you have a new — 
Is he a young footman or an aged page ?” 

‘‘Oh! you mean George,” said Mrs. 
Middleton. ‘‘ He is rather young, but I 
hope he’ll do.” 

‘‘ I don’t think he will,” said Percival. 

‘‘ Why not ? He is a good steady lad, 
and his mother is a widow and very bad- 
ly off. I really think I’ve seen clumsier 
boys,” said the kind old lady, making a 
strenuous effort to compliment George, 
and to do it as little at the expense of 
truth as possible ; ‘‘ and he’s at an awk- 
ward age too.” 

‘‘ Undoubtedly. I dare say he is a good 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


77 


honest fellow — in fact, he looks like it; 
but if ever you make a servant of him — ” 

"I think he does his best„” said Sissy. 

" I fear he does : there might be some 
hope of him if he were doing his worst. 
I wonder whether you would speak up 
for him, Sissy, if you knew how very nar- 
rowly you escaped a deluge of bread- 
sauce ? I assure you for a moment I was 
in a perfect agony of apprehension — ” 

“ How very good of you !” 

"Lest there should be none left for 
me. And after that I noticed him a lit- 
tle more. He halts between two opin- 
ions, and before doing the slightest thing 
he tries to work it out in all its possible 
consequences. Meanwhile, he doesn’t 
wait, and we do." 

"He is dreadfully afraid of Duncan,” 
said Mrs. Middleton. 

"So I perceived. And to crown all," 
said Percival, "he is one of those unfor- 
tunate people who cannot meditate free- 
ly unless their mouths are hanging open. 
I don’t think you’ll break him of that, 
and if you tied it up it might suggest 
mumps." 

" He is awkward," Mrs. Middleton al- 
lowed ; "but, you see, his mother is such 
a hard-working woman." 

"That is a great merit in George, no 
doubt. But couldn’t you make some- 
thing else of him ?’’ 

Mr. Thorne, who had apparently been 
lost in thought, woke up: "Would you 
like to send him to Parliament to sup- 
port Mr. Gladstone ? There’s a vacancy 
at Fordborough just now." 

"A vacancy at Fordborough! How 
so ?" 

" Old Bridgman died last night of apo- 
plexy : it was telegraphed down this af- 
ternoon. Silas Fielding told me.” 

Percival leant back in his chair and 
thoughtfully caressed the down on his 
upper lip. His grandfather watched him 
out of the corners of his eyes. 

"That was sudden. He wasn’t an old 
man at all, was he ?” said Mrs. Middle- 
ton. 

" Only sixty-two ; but he always look- 
ed like the sort of man who might go 
off in a fit any day." 

" It will be a blow to the Fordborotigh 


Liberals," said Percival. "Bridgman’s 
property in the neighborhood gave him 
great weight with the half-and-half peo- 
ple. Has he a son ?" 

"By his second marriage, yes — a boy 
of ten or twelve.” 

"Oh! then they must look out for a 
new man altogether." 

" I don’t see that they need look very 
far," said Mr. Thorne. 

Percival smiled : " No, I dare say not. 
Constituencies are like heiresses — apt to 
be even a little overdone with perfectly 
disinterested lovers.” 

‘ The old squire filled his glass to the 
brim: "What do you think of Mr. Per- 
cival Thorne for a candidate ? Shall I 
drink to his success?" 

Sensation, as the reporters say, for 
there was no doubt that Godfrey Thorne 
was in earnest. 

"You wish 7ne to stand.?” said Perci- 
val after a pause. 

"Why not ?’’ 

"On the Radical side?" 

" No : I don’t wish that. But the crude, 
haphazard ideas you call your principles 
would, I fear, prevent you from standing 
on any other at present. Besides, there 
is no opening for a Conservative." 

"Hm!” said Percival; "and I suppose 
I may count on the Brackenhill influence 
to back me ?’’ 

"Undoubtedly you may." 

Mrs. Middleton became exceedingly 
pink : even Percival was startled. He 
said nothing, but he propped his chin on 
his hand and gazed thoughtfully at the 
old man with a whimsical expression of 
perplexity and expectation. 

"What now?" said Mr. Thorne: "do 
you think I’m going to change into some 
curious kind of wild animal, that you all 
sit looking at me in this fashion ?’’ 

" Say an ostrich," Percival blandly sug- 
gested, "capable of swallowing things one 
would have imagined must disagree with 
him. No, I don’t expect that. I am look- 
ing for some further development." 

Mr. Thorne enjoyed the situation. 
"You have only to make up your mind," 
he said : " if you choose to attempt it, I 
will find the necessary funds and help 
you with all the influence I have.” 


78 


FOR PERCIVAL. 


“What!” said Mrs. Middleton. She 
was crimson. 

Her brother looked coolly at her : 
"Why not?” 

“You call yourself a Conservative?” 

“Never!” said Godfi y with empha- 
sis. “It’s a nasty, slippery word. You 
think you have got hold of a man under- 
neath it, and he wriggles away. Heaven 
only knows where. Call yourself a Tory, 
and I know what you mean. People are 
Liberal -Conservatives or Conservative- 
Liberals now-a-days, and no one sees 
any absurdity in it ; but what should you 
think of a fellow who called himself a 
Liberal -Tory ?” 

Mrs. Middleton returned to the charge : 
“Then you consider yourself a Tory?” 

He bowed a smiling little assent, and 
sipped his wine. 

“And yet you tell Percival — when 
you know he is a Radical, a Red Repub- 
lican — ” The young man arched his 
brows, and with a swift movement of his 
hands deprecated the extreme tint ; but 
Mrs. Middleton swept on, heedless of the 
silent protest : “ You tell Percival that he 
may count on your support. Is that con- 
scientious ?” 

“Did I say I was conscientious ?” 

“ Perhaps it was as well you did not,” 
his sister retorted. “ The Thornes have 
been Tories for — how many generations, 
Godfrey ? I never expected to hear my 
brother call himself by the old name and 
be false to the cause. And let me tell 
you, Godfrey, I call that — ” 

“My dear,” said the old man with the 
sweetest courtesy, “ in your present state 
of mind I wouldn’t call it anything if I 
were you. But don’t let me prevent 
your thinking it what you please.” 

“That I most certainly shall,” said 
Aunt Harriet, still much flushed and 
very warlike of aspect. 

“Well,” Mr. Thorne conceded, “per- 
haps it does sound peculiar. But, if you 
only think a moment, we are all being 
carried steadily and irresistibly toward 
democracy.” 

“So much the worse,” snapped Aunt 
Harriet. 

“ Granted — so much the worse, but I 
can’t alter it. By my grea 'grandson’s 


time there’ll be nothing left for a Tory 
to fight for.” 

She groaned. 

“And if my grandson like*s to help in 
pulling down what little there is now, he 
may. It won’t make much difference to 
the next generation, and I don’t care 
about the next generation. My vote 
and my interest won’t stop the tide. In 
a few years what influence I have will 
probably be swamped. It used to be a 
power, and now it is mere ornament, 
hollow — a toy weapon which will break 
if I draw it against the enemy. Let Per- 
cival have it to play with if he likes.” 

“Sissy, is my cap straight?” said Mrs. 
Middleton in a hurried aside. She was 
so much discomposed that she felt as if 
it must be awry, and was but half reas- 
sured when Sissy smiled and nodded. 

Percival, as he sat opposite, 

Played with spoons, explored his plate’s design. 

And ranged the olive-stones about its edge, 

while he revolved the new idea in his 
mind. 

Mr. Thorne turned to him : “ Well, 
what do you say ? There’s strength 
enough in Toryism yet to give you a 
little healthful exercise, I dare say.” 

“More than that,” said Percival. 

“You are a clever fellow, no doubt,” 
his grandfather went on, “but you won’t 
have made a clean sweep of everything 
before I die. After that ’ ’ — he shrugged his 
shoulders — “you must do as you please. 
Some day, perhaps, you will have finish- 
ed your job, and can sit down and rest in 
your ideal world, with its whole surface 
stamped to a dead level of mud. By 
that time I trust that I shall have long 
been admitted to the delightful Tory so- 
ciety I shall find above.” 

“ How do you know they’ll be Conser- 
vative up there, sir.?” 

“Of course they will,” said Mr. Thorne : 
“it must be evident to any mind not warp- 
ed by Radical prejudice. The Tories are 
nearly all dead, and most of them were 
a great deal better than anybody else. 
And if a few Radicals should find their 
way in, they’ll turn Conservative as soon 
as they see they have distanced their fel- 
lows.” 


^^FOR PERCIVALR 


Mrs. Middleton returned to the charge 
in a gentler tone : “ I dare say what you 
say may be very true, Godfrey. I do 
think things are coming to a dreadful 
pass, what with the uppishness of ser- 
vants, and the trades unions, and the 
hats and feathers the girls will wear 
about here. Very likely you are right.” 

" My grandfather is exaggerating to 
an alarming extent,” said Percival. 

“ Exaggerating I” said the old man. 
‘‘Not a bit of it.” 

‘‘ You despair of your cause too soon, 
sir.” 

“Too soon ! Am I to put off despair- 
ing for fifty years or so ? What is the 
good of shutting my eyes to what will 
assuredly come ? To know that one 
must despair some day is to despair at 
once.” 

‘‘ I dare say what you say may be very 
true, Godfrey,” Aunt Harriet began again, 
‘‘ but I don’t see that that makes it a bit 
more right for you to go and help the 
Radicals when you call yourself a Tory. 
You will always have to think that it was 
partly your work if they win — ” 

‘‘ I should say,” Mr. Thorne interrupt- 
ed her with the air of a man who is weigh- 
ing something very accurately indeed, 
‘‘ that I should have exactly as much to 
answer for as if I lent the river a helping 
hand to leap down at Niagara. My con- 
science, possibly hardened, is equal to 
that burden, Harriet.” 

‘‘ Then it oughtn’t to be. If we are com- 
ing to such a horrid state of things — ” 

‘‘ My dear, my dear,” in a soothing 
tone, ” you’ll be out of it — with me. It’s 
only these poor young people here — ” 

‘‘You ought to stand by the right to 
the last. I’m not blaming Percival. I 
can’t think why he has such nasty opin- 
ions, but as he has them, it can’t be help- 
ed.” She glanced at the young fellow’s 
face with wonder and a faint shadow of 
disgust, as if she saw republicanism com- 
ing visibly out — very red indeed, like an 
unpleasant sort of rash. ‘‘ There’s noth- 
ing more to be said about it, and I hope 
he knows that I should like him to get 
on, and that I wish him well in every- 
thing else. But you don’t think as he 
does, thank Goodness ! And after all. 


79 

Godfrey, your vote wasn’t given you 
for Percival.” 

‘‘ Well done !” said the young man. 
‘‘Why, Aunt Harriet, you’ll make a Wo- 
man’s Rights champion of me ! Astound- 
ing fact! Here i^a woman who prefers 
principles to persons in politics ! Aunt 
Harriet, do you know you are very in- 
teresting indeed ?” 

‘‘ I know that you are very imperti- 
nent,” said the old lady with a smile. 
She was anxious that he should under- 
stand that her opposition arose from no 
ill-will to him, and wanted to atone for 
any unkindness in her words. 

Percival made a small note in his 
pocket-book. ‘‘When hereafter I bal- 
ance the arguments for and against the 
extension of the franchise to women, you 
will score one for it,” he said with much 
solemnity. ‘‘You will possibly influence 
my political career, and should I enter 
Parliament and supersede Mr. Gladstone, 
you may seriously affect the course of 
legislation.” 

‘‘ Very good,’ said the old lady. ‘‘Give 
me a vote and I’ll use it against you. 
Trust me.” 

‘‘I do,” was the fervent reply. 

‘‘And what does Sissy say to it all?” 
asked Mr. Thorne. ‘‘Will you vote for 
Percival, Sissy, and send him to Parlia- 
ment to undermine Church and State 
and trample down everything ? He will 
be Citizen Thorne, and George the foot- 
man will be Citizen Something-else, and 
you’ll all be free and equal — eh. Sissy?” 

She flashed a swift shy glance at Per- 
cival. ‘‘ I’ll tell you what I’ll do with my 
vote,” she said, ‘‘when I get it.” 

She was not much alarmed. She 
thought Mr. Thorne’s little sketch of the 
future sounded very disagreeable, but if 
Percival wanted people to be citizens, no 
doubt it was all right. A girl who is in 
love, and still in her teens, cannot be 
greatly disturbed by any schemes of uni- 
versal equality. You may say what you 
please, and so may she, but in her heart 
she is perfectly convinced that it is be- 
yond the power of mortals to reduce her 
hero to the ordinary level of mankind. 

Aunt Harriet had rather distinguish- 
ed herself that evening, and had made 


8o 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


more impression on her brother than she 
at all supposed. Now she proceeded to 
add her final argument, as a child adds 
one more brick to a frail wooden tower, 
and of course she brought the whole 
structure down with a crash : “And there’s 
something else to be thought of, Godfrey. 
What will all your neighbors think ? I 
couldn’t bear to hear them say you had 
turned traitor, when the Thornes have 
never failed them yet. Why, what did 
our grandfather spend on that great elec- 
tion when he vowed he would have the 
seat if it cost him Brackenhill ? Oh, 
Godfrey, what would Mr. Falconer say, 
or Mr. Garnett ?’’ 

“That’s to be thought of, is it?’’ said 
Mr. Thorne. “No doubt you are right. 
Messrs. Garnett and Falconer and the 


rest of them consider me ticketed and 
shelved, and look upon my vote as theirs. 
Well, I think it is about time that they 
should learn that it is mine.’’ 

“ Oh, Godfrey ! you know I didn’t mean 
it so,’’ said Mrs. Middleton. 

He smiled : “There’s nothing more to 
be said. I have pledged my word, and 
the decision rests with Percival.’’ 

Aunt Harriet perceived her fatal mis- 
take, and had tact enough not to make 
it worse by further words. The moment 
she found herself in the drawing-room 
with Sissy she hurried to one of the old- 
fashioned mirrors : “ My dear Sissy, are 
you sure my cap is straight ? I don*t think 
it can be, I feel so dreadfully awry.’’ 



^^FOR PERCIVALr 


8l 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A MIDNIGHT ENCOUNTER. 

said Sissy, as 
later in the 


at the piano, 
‘‘have you 
made up 
your mind 
yet ?” 

“Not just 
now. I feel 
a curious re- 
luctance 
to say No, 
and yet — ” 
“ What ?’’ 
He hesita- 
ted; “Well, 
lam not sure 
that my po- 
litical creed is definite enough for action. 
And I see other difficulties in the way. 
It is Horace, and not I, who should 
stand for Fordborough.” 

“Always Horace first.” 

“Well, he will live at Brackenhill — at 
least, I hope so. Probably in a few years’ 
time I shall have no connection whatever 
with the neighborhood.” 

“ Don’t talk like that : it sounds very 
horrid,” said Sissy. “ Horace knows 
nothing of politics.” 

“Not much,” Percival smiled. “Less 
than I do, though I can’t think how he 
contrives it. But what then ? He is a 
Conservative, and, unlike my grandfa- 
ther, a Conservative of a fighting type.” 

“ Why aren’t you a Conservative too ?” 
said Sissy. “ They were talking non- 
sense, weren’t they? You don’t want 
to be Citizen Thorne, do you ? Not 
really ?” 

Percival disclaimed any aspirations of 
the kind. “ I’m not much of a Radical,” 
he said. “ I think I’m too idle.” 

“I can’t make up my mind whether 
6 



I want you to stand or not,” said Sissy 
thoughtfully. “M. P. certainly sounds 
very nice, but I should have to wear a 
yellow dress, and read the debates to 
see when you said anything; and yel- 
low isn’t my color, I am afraid — ” 

“ And the debates aren’t your style of 
reading, I know. But, Sissy, you are a 
Tory: you mustn’t wear my colors.” 

“ Oh yes, I should. I should be a Rad- 
ical just for once, by way of a change. 
Uncle Thorne would want some one to 
keep him in countenance.” 

“ How noble of you ! I imagine the 
pair of you gallantly confronting the 
sorrowful and disgusted county. What 
a help you will be to him !” 

“ Percival, don’t laugh at me. Do you 
hear, sir?” 

“ Laugh ! why, I am perfectly serious. 
Of course you will be a help. On a hot 
day, when people fly in the face of Na- 
ture and insist on the energetic pursuit 
of a purpose, I can’t tell you what a sup- 
port the butterflies are to me.” 

“And I am a butterfly?” said Sissy. 
She was playing little tinkling notes with 
her right hand, as her manner was when 
any one talked to her at the piano. 

“Please,” said the tall young man at 
her side. “Everything and everybody 
will soon be too self-conscious and an- 
alytical for any heedless happiness to be 
left in the world at all. We are so pru- 
dent and anxious we can’t so much as 
revel in fruit or drink new milk without 
a reminder that we ought to be careful to 
preserve the one and condense the other, 
and put them into air-tight tins, so that 
we may have a spoonful or so all the 
year round, instead of a reckless, happy 
feast to-day. Soon everything will be in 
tins — good, commonplace and econom- 
ical. Be a butterfly. Sissy. Don’t be like 
hardworking, dingy little ants and things, 
making nasty little holes and houses all 
through June, because their lives are 
nothing but a foreboding of November. 
Be a butterfly. Sissy.” 


82 


“/w percival:^ 


‘"Yes,” said Sissy simply. “But it would 
be dreadful to be always expected to skim 
about and be gay if one happened to be 
tired or hurt.” 

“And if one attempted to help the poor 
thing, one would brush all the bloom off 
its wings,” said Percival. “But, Sissy, 
this train of thought isn’t right for a 
butterfly, at least not yet. I have an idea 
that the Butterfly of the Future will count 
martyrdom in the cause of knowledge 
an enviable fate, and will fly to the col- 
lectors to secure the immortality of hav- 
ing a pin stuck through it and being 
classified in a camphor-scented drawer.” 
He looked at his watch: “Why, go to 
bed. Sissy : it is eleven o’clock, and you 
look pale. Dream of a yellow dress.” 

“A brimstone butterfly; what would 
Aunt Harriet say?” And Sissy went off. 

Percival rested his elbow on the piano. 
With his dark brows and compressed lips 
he appeared lost in thought, but in reality 
the letters M. P. floated before his eyes, 
and he wavered idly between Shall I ? 
and Shall I not ? His grandfather paced 
to and fro in the dim end of the room, 
and Aunt Harriet was busy over an ac- 
count-book. If anv'thing vexed or wor- 
ried her she generally flew to her ac- 
counts. I imagine she felt that a long 
column of her undecided figures fully 
justified any amount of irritation in 
which it might otherwise be sinful to 
indulge. She glanced at Percival now 
and then, and once she fell into deep 
meditation, drawing hieroglyphics on her 
blotting-paper till the fine point of her 
pen acquired a hairy knob, which dis- 
concerted her very much when she re- 
commenced work. Her impatient ex- 
clamation roused her brother from his 
reverie. 

“Bedtime,” he said, and bade her 
good-night as he passed. — “Are you con- 
sidering what you will say to the Ford- 
borough voters, Percival ?” 

“ I haven’t decided whether I will face 
them yet.” 

“Try it — try it,” said the old man. 
“ I’m not far from eighty, you know. If 
you don’t make a beginning of your ca- 
reer soon, I sha’n’t live to see it.” 

“My career!” said Percival with a 


hopeless scorn which might have suited 
the elder man of the two. 

“We must see about your address,” 
the other went on ; “and the sooner the 
better.” 

“ I can’t write it to-night, if you mean 
that,” said Percival. “I’m apt to feel 
much too happy and well satisfied for 
that kind of thing in the evening. I 
might compose it in bits, during odd mo- 
ments of waiting for dinner, perhaps.” 

“ I wish Hammond were here,” mused 
Mr. Thorne : “he might help us to get it 
into shape. I don’t understand these F ord- 
borough electors myself.” His glance as 
he spoke might have fully explained the 
meaning of the word canaille to any one 
who was ignorant of it. “They want 
something rather strongly seasoned, I 
suppose.” 

“ Do you think Hammond understands 
them better ?” 

“Yes. He is one generation nearer 
these new ideas, even if he hates them ; 
and he is very practical. I think I must 
take in the Telegraph. Isn’t that the 
sort of paper to give one ideas?” 

"My ideas, no doubt you mean ?” said 
Percival loftily. 

“Not at all, but the ideas of your prob- 
able supporters. Possibly you imagined 
they would be identical ?” said the old 
man, with the glance half scornful, half 
envying, with which generous illusions 
are often greeted. 

“ Hm I Perhaps I did. Well, to-mor- 
row will be time enough to decide. I’ll 
think it over to-night.” 

“ Do so. But remember that there is 
no time to lose. And if you do not make 
the attempt now, some one else may come 
in who will not easily be got rid of.” 

“Oh, I understand that it is now or 
never,” said Percival. “I am going to 
take that for granted.” 

Mr. Thorne was moving off, but he 
paused; “Now or never? No, I don’t 
say that. You may have another op- 
portunity : still, don’t throw this one 
away;” and he went. 

“ I suppose he means if — if anything : 
happens to poor Horace,” thought Per- 
cival. “But I’m not going to count on 
that." 


**FOR PERCIVALF 


83 


("If anything happens,” we say. As 
if death were a strange and doubtful 
chance!) 

Aunt Harriet wiped her pen and look- 
ed anxiously at the musing figure seated 
by Sissy’s piano. There was such si- 
lence for the next few minutes that the 
clock on the chimney-piece seemed to 
tick louder on purpose to break it. Aunt 
Harriet’s thoughts, and Percival’s too, 
set themselves to its monotonous ac- 
companiment : “ Shall I ? shall I not ? — 
Shall I ? shall I not ?” At last she re- 
solved, "I will.” — “Sit down,” she said 
when Percival rose to bid her good-night 
as she crossed the room toward him : “ I 
want to speak to you.” 

“Say on.” 

“ But sit down. Why are you so 
ridiculously tall ?” 

Percival sat down, and the little old 
lady, in her gray satin gown and point 
lace, stood over him. “See here,” she 
said : “ you must do what you please 
about this election (I’m sure I wish old 
Bridgman hadn’t died, but he has been 
aggravating me in every possible way all 
his life ; so this is only a proper ending 
to it), but you sha’n’t make up your mind 
without considering what it will cost God- 
frey.” 

“ Elections are cheaper than they used 
to be,” said Percival dryly. 

“They need be, seeing the sort we 
elect,” the old lady retorted. “But I 
wasn’t thinking only of the money. 
How do you suppose he will feel when 
all the county families turn their backs 
on him?” 

“Ten years younger and a great deal 
happier. Why, Aunt Harriet, don’t you 
know that to oppose every one and startle 
every one is absolute life to my grand- 
father ?” 

“ Very pleasant for Sissy and myself, 
that. And for Horace too. Take your 
own way, Percival, but remember what 
all his old friends will say.” 

“ Let them say.” 

“ They will declare that you are taking 
advantage of an old man’s childishness 
to use him for your own advancement.” 

“ My grandfather childish !” 

“They are sure to say it. They say 


now that you turn him round your fin- 
ger. And indeed, Percival, I question 
very much if he would have done this 
twenty years ago. But you must decide. 
I only ask you to consider him a little.” 

“Well, Aunt Harriet,” said Percival, 
“ I make no promise, but I will tell you 
this : It is not likely that I shall accept 
his offer : every reason I can think of is 
against it. There is nothing on the oth- 
er side except a fancy, a reluctance to say 
' No,’ for which I can’t at all account.” 

Mrs. Middleton eyed him with her head 
on one side : “ I almost think I would ra- 
ther it were the other way. Well, good- 
night, Percival.” 

As soon as she was gone he drew an 
arm-chair to the centre of the hearth- 
rug, threw a couple of logs on the fire 
and settled himself for a comfortable 
meditation. The old butler, who had 
been yawning outside, looked despair- 
ingly in, feigned astonishment at the 
sight of him, and was about to retreat. 

“Go to bed, Duncan,” said Percival. 
“ Don’t let any one sit up for me. I am 
going to be — busy for a little while. I’ll 
see that all is safe. Good-night.” And 
he sank luxuriously back and stretched 
himself before the leaping blaze as the 
old man went out. 

He was perplexed. Being just at that 
time so conscious of the limitations of 
his life, he was strongly drawn to this 
opening with its novel possibilities. It 
was unforeseen, and that was in itself a 
charm. If he refused, what would be left 
to him ? On the other hand, if he accept- 
ed he would be injuring his grandfather 
and Horace. And for what? For his own 
amusement, for he could hardly say that 
it was for the sake of political views which 
he had never been able to define. 

He was a sort of Radical from convic- 
tion, but his feelings and tastes were Con- 
servative. One day, when he was noth- 
ing at all, it had occurred to him, a pro- 
Pos of something or other, that the cir- 
cumstances into which a man was born 
could hardly be reckoned as a merit of 
his own. It was not a very startling dis- 
covery. Few of us would be inclined to 
deny the assertion, I suppose, but it does 
not particularly affect most people. It 


84 


*^FOR PERCIVALr 


seemed, however, to take possession of I 
Percival, and, meditating on it, he was 
led into strange paths which he would 
not have chosen, but whence he saw no 
possible escape. He was not altogether 
pleased with his political creed, feeling a 
little as if it had him in a string and were 
leading him about. 

Horace, his grandfather — they were to 
be considered, but that was not all. Per- 
cival felt that he ought to take a lofty 
and general view of the question. He 
attempted it, but he hardly seemed to 
grasp it somehow, and it still remained 
misty. Possibly, he thought, he had not 
placed himself at a sufficient distance 
from it to judge impartially. He laid 
his head comfortably back, gazed at 
the ceiling with its shadows and ruddy 
lights, ever varying yet the same, and 
endeavored to abstract his mind from 
the every-day surroundings of his life in 
order to concentrate his power of thought 
on the simple question, “ Have I a work- 
ing political creed ?” During a few mo- 
ments of intense thought — it might be a 
little hazy, but he was dimly conscious 
that it was almost sublime — he went 
rather further in the process of self- 
abstraction than he originally intended. 
Gliding past such formalities as an elec- 
tion, probably contested, and the decla- 
ration of the poll, he found himself mem- 
ber for Fordborough. Nor was this all. 
He had gained the ear of the House, 
he had got rid of all his perplexities, he 
was making a great speech. The words 
poured from his lips amid breathless at- 
tention. The strangest fact was that the 
fluent speaker had not the least idea of 
the subject of his eloquence, or even of 
the end of the sentence which he had 
begun. Good Heavens ! he did not so 
much as know the next syllable ! Where 
did it all come from ? And if it stopped 
suddenly ! ... It did stop suddenly. He 
groped wildly for a word, turning very 
cold, and found himself sitting bolt up- 
right, staring into the dark. 

It was not utterly dark, for he soon 
perceived a dull red spot before him, the 
glimmering embers of that joyous blaze. 
He found an old letter in his pocket, 
twisted up the cover and thrust it into 


the wood -ashes. At first it smouldered 
doubtfully : he stooped down and blew 
it gently, and it burst into a flame. The 
light played for a moment on the shin- 
ing watch and the intent face above it, 
and then went out. But he had learned 
all he wanted to know : it was five-and- 
twenty minutes to three. The little sparks 
ran hurriedly to and fro in the rustling 
black paper, and died as they ran. The 
last went out, and Percival stood up in 
the darkness and stretched himself. 

Five -and -twenty minutes to three! 
Not a very dreadful fact in itself, but 
terrible in a house like Brackenhill, 
where every one was asleep by mid- 
night, and to be up late was supposed 
to partake of the nature of sin. Such 
houses seem to take their character from 
their occupants. The doors creak in hor- 
ror when you open them cautiously ; the 
boards on which you set your feet are 
in league to betray you, the dismay with 
which you start from one arousing the 
next ; while every echo is miraculously 
awake. Percival groped his way to the 
hall-table, where he knew that a candle 
and matches would be ready for him. 
He found the box without any trouble, 
but the match he tried, after scratching 
noisily and uselessly over the sand-paper 
more than once, exploded suddenly with 
a report like a pistol (at least so he after- 
ward affirmed), and then went out before 
he could find his candlestick. A second 
attempt succeeded better, though it was 
followed by the discovery that they had 
supplied him with a candle whose il- 
luminating power was at least equal to 
that of magnesium wire. It seemed im- 
possible that it should not flood every 
nook and cranny with a dazzling glare 
and awake the entire household. Sha- 
ding the terrible luminary as well as he 
could with his hand, the young man 
started on his perilous journey up the 
shallow steps of darkly -polished oak, 
and as he went he weighed the chances 
of detection. 

He would not have far to go when he 
reached the head of the stairs. A few 
steps to the right would take him to the 
passage at the entrance to which was his 
room. Sissy’s was a couple of doors 


*'FOR PERCIVALR 


farther down. “ I hope I sha’n’t frighten 
the poor child,” thought Percival, ‘‘but 
the way in which this staircase creaks is 
really an interesting phenomenon, if she 
could only appreciate it.” Aunt Harriet’s 
room was a little farther still on the op- 
posite side. The old lady slept very 
soundly indeed, and had little fear of 
robbers, the idea of fire absorbing all 
her stock of terror. ‘‘ I shall do very 
well as far as she is concerned,” thought 
Percival, ‘‘ unless she happens to take 
this confounded creaking for the crack- 
ling of flames. Good Heavens ! what is 
that?” ’ 

He paused on the landing, and the 
slight but distinct rustling which had 
startled him paused too. It was in the 
passage he was about to enter. 

His pulses quickened as he stood list- 
ening intently and screening the light. 
He was no coward, but he felt himself 
in an awkward position. Some one was 
just round the corner, but who was it? 
Mr. Thorne and his man Turner slept 
quite at the other end of the house, and 
the servants’ rooms were all on the next 
floor. He did not think that either Sis- 
sy or Aunt Middleton would be likely to 
play hide-and-seek in this alarming fash- 
ion in the middle of the night. It might 
be a burglar making ready to spring 
upon him ; and it cannot be denied that 
it is unpleasant to stand in watchful sus- 
pense which may at any moment end in 
a life-and-death struggle with an armed 
antagonist. Percival felt all at once that 
he was breathing hard as he stared at the 
spot where his foe might suddenly appear. 
Then a cold shudder ran through him 
from head to heel : ‘‘ Where does Han- 
nah Davis sleep, I wonder?” 

Hannah was Mrs. Middleton’s maid, 
faithful but hysterical. If by any chance 
it were she, Percival’s appearance would 
be greeted with a series of wild screams. 
‘‘I’d rather it were a burglar, ’’bethought: 
‘‘any one but Hannah.” 

It was really not a minute from his first 
alarm when a face peered round the cor- 
ner. Sissy stood there wrapped in a 
white dressing-gown. Pale as death 
and with dilated eyes, she held up her 
hand in sign of silence. A step, and 


85 

Percival was at her side : ‘‘ Sissy, in 
Heaven’s name, what is amiss ?” 

She clung with trembling hands to his 
arm before she answered: ‘‘There’s a 
man, a robber — Oh, Percival!” 

Percival looked hastily round, as if 
he expected to be introduced to the 
man then and there. Seeing nobody, 
“Where?” said he. 

She pointed vaguely down the passage. * 
“ I was lying awake,” she explained in a 
gasping whisper, “and not five minutes 
ago some one came stealing along in the 
dark. He didn’t know his way, I think, 
for he drew his hand along the wall as 
he went, and touched the fastening of 
my door. Oh, Percival ! But he went 
on, and when I heard him turn to the 
left I hurried out and ran to your door 
to wake you, but it was open, and I said, 

‘ Percival,’ and you didn’t speak. And 
then I heard some one coming up stairs, 
and I thought it was another of them, 
and I tried to scream, but I couldn’t. 
And all at once I knew it was you, and 
I looked round. And if it hadn’t been, 

I should have gone mad that moment.” 

“ My poor child !” said Thorne tender- 
ly. Sissy had ended her speech on the 
threshold of his room, and as he spoke 
he had a pistol in his hand. She follow- 
ed him mutely to her own door. “ Wait 
here for me,” he said. “ I dare say there 
may be nothing wrong. Don’t be fright- 
ened. Stay : perhaps you might as well 
turn the key in the lock till I come.” 

The trembling little girl of a moment 
before flashed a steady, scornful look at 
him : “No, no.” 

He was turning to go. His olive cheek 
was a shade paler than usual, his lips 
were firmly set, his eyes shining with a 
fierce excitement which was almost plea- 
sure. Men have so few opportunities now 
of satisfying their warlike instincts and re- 
joicing in their strength, compared with 
the opportunities of the old days. 

“Take care 1 oh, Percival, take care !” 

The agony in her tone was not to be 
mistaken. For all answer he stooped 
and kissed her lips. As he lifted his 
head he heard the sound of footsteps 
groping along a distant passage. With 
one quick glance he was gone. 


86 


^'FOR PERCIVALF 


She stood where he left her, sick with 
a double terror. Fear of the unknown 
enemy was mixed up with fear of the 
very weapon which Percival carried, for 
she was aware of the deadly accuracy with 
which firearms are wont to point them- 
selves at their possessors. She listened 
in a strained agony of expectation for 
a report, a heavy fall and the sudden 
clamor of the awakened house, but noth- 
ing came. For a moment she fancied 
there was a slight confusion of hurrying 
steps, but then, listen as she would, all 
was still. She did not pray, but it seem- 
ed to her that she was a prayer — for 
Percival. 

Hark! a footfall in the long passage, 
cautious and light, but coming swiftly 
toward her. Ah ! thank God I It was 
he, and all was well. 

He was laughing when he came round 
the corner, but he was angry too. If your 
courage and excitement are at boiling- 
point, it is all very well to start off on a 
perilous quest at three o’clock on a No- 
vember morning. But if the adventure 
suddenly collapses to absurd dimensions, 
a little anger is not only natural enough, 
but needful to enable you to resist the 
universal chill. Percival would hardly 
have laughed if he had not been angry. 
She looked her questions. “ It was that 
idiotic young footman of yours — George,” 
said Thorne in a whisper. 

“What ! does he walk in his sleep ?” 

“Not he. Shouldn’t mind that so much 
if he would be kind enough not to walk 
in yours. The idiot was going to fasten 
the landing window just over the porch.” 

Sissy stared in silent amazement. 

“ Duncan told him to do it in the after- 
noon. As he was going he was called 
away for something else, and never 
went. Just at dinner-time Duncan ask- 
ed if it were done. The coward said 
‘Yes,’ meaning to go directly he was 
free, but forgot it till, about half an hour 
ago, he woke and it flashed upon him. 
Instantly he imagined a stream of burg- 
lars pouring steadily in at the undefend- 
ed spot. Even if none came, Duncan 
might discover his negligence to-mor- 
row, and — He shook so,” said Perci- 
val, “that we were not able to pursue 


that branch of the subject. So he got 
up and started off to see after it.” 

“But is that true?” questioned Sissy. 
“Because, you know, this wouldn’t be 
the proper way.” 

“ The proper way led him past Dun- 
can’s door. Better wander all over the 
house than pass that.” 

“And was it unfastened?” 

“The window? Yes. It’s fastened 
now, and the poor wretch has gone 
back half dead with fright. He cer- 
tainly thought his last hour had come.” 

“Poor fellow!” said Sissy. “What 
did you *do to him?” 

“Well,” said Percival with a leisurely 
smile, “if you must know, I remembered 
your poor little white face and — swore 
at him. Since when I have been think- 
ing what a blessing it is I don’t swear as 
a rule. If I were in the habit of saying 
— but there is no need for illustrations, 
perhaps — every time I opened my lips, 
I should never have thought twice about 
it, while now I have quite an invigorat- 
ing feeling of having done something — 
adopted a resolute line of action, you 
know. And I think George feels so too.” 

“ Is swearing as nice as that ? I think 
I must take to it,” Sissy whispered. “ I 
want some excitement sometimes — oh, 
dreadfully !” 

Percival was thinking how wonderful 
her hair v/as, all hanging loose, the color 
of a newly -ripened chestnut at the curl- 
ing tips, and with here and there a strand 
of living gold. He laughed and said, 
“You don’t want any more excitement 
to-night : you’ve had too much already. 
I’ll teach you to swear to-morrow if you 
like. Go back to bed now.” 

“ I suppose I must,” was her reluctant 
reply. “I feel as if I would rather not 
go to sleep" any more.” 

He glanced over his shoulder : “ I ex- 
pect every minute that Aunt Harriet or 
my grandfather will be getting up a burg- 
lar-hunt in their turn, and we shall have 
to be the burglars.” 

She hesitated. Percival stood looking 
at her. He knew she was beautiful : he 
had seen it many a time — that very after- 
noon when she came down the stairs, for 
instance. But he had never felt before 


^^FOR percival: 


87 


as if something in Sissy’s beauty appeal- 
ed to something in him which thrilled in 
swift response. He could hardly keep his 
eyes from betraying the admiration which 
would have been an insult at that time 
and place, and he studiously controlled 
his voice as he reiterated his command, 
"Go back now, Sissy — go." 

“Percival, don’t laugh at me. If that 
window was open some one might have 
got in." 

"Some one might, certainly." 

" And he may be lurking about some- 
where now." 

" He may, but it isn’t likely." 

Sissy hung her head: "I’m very stu- 
pid, but I don’t think I could quite stand 
another fright to-night.” 

“ It would be too much to expect," said 
Thorne. " You’ve behaved like a hero- 
ine.” A gleam of pleasure crossed the 
drooping face. " But there’s no occa- 
sion for any more heroic qualities just 
now. I am not going to bed ‘till day- 
light doth appear’ — at* any rate, not till 
the maids set to work with their scrub- 
bing-brushes and brooms : that’s the first 
indication of dawn in November, isn’t it? 
So, if you can’t rest in peace, I shall be 
compelled to suppose you don’t think 
me able to take care of you.” 

"Oh, but don’t sit up just because I’m 
foolish.” 

He smiled. She knew very well that 
the smile expressed a resolution it was 
beyond her power to shake. " Shall you 
sleep. Sissy?" 

" So well !’’ And she crept back to her 
little white nest. She did sleep. An over- 
powering necessity was upon her, since 
every waking moment implied a doubt 
of Percival. 

And he went away to commence his 
watch. He felt something like a true 
knight keeping his vigil, only the knight- 
hood had come before, at the touch of 
Sissy’s lips. He thought more of that 
hurried kiss than she had yet done. 
Terror first, and then her anxiety lest 
his watchfulness should be in vain, kept 
her from looking back, till remembrance 
flashed upon her with the first gleam of 
morning and brought the hot color to her 
face. But Percy recalled it as he sat that 


night in his room. Why had he done it ? 
He could not tell. The impulse had been 
too swift for even a glimpse of its cause. 
What did it matter ? It was done. 

It was not a slight thing in Percival’s 
thoughts. His destiny had been sway- 
ing in the balance, needing just a little 
more in one scale or the other to deter- 
mine it. He had felt as if the decision 
required an effort he was too indolent to 
make, and he rejoiced that his momen- 
tary impulse had settled it without a 
thought. For if Sissy’s lips had spoken 
for an hour, they could not have told 
him as much as that swift midnight 
touch had done, and the betrayal of her 
love had been the revelation of his own. 

Horace had kissed her many a time 
from her childhood onward. Master 
Horace was not chary of his kisses : he 
had an idea that, as he had no sister,* 
other girls were bound to make good the 
deficiency. But to Percival’s composed 
lips and sombre eyes nothing slighter 
than passionate kisses of eternal rapture 
or farewell — a life’s devotion compre- 
hended in a glance — would have seem- 
ed appropriate. He was hardly prepared 
to act up to this exalted ideal perhaps, 
but instinct told him that it was not for 
him to traffic in the small change of 
lovemaking. The touch of his lips was 
a pledge, and he had given it that No- 
vember night. It was well. It seemed 
that he was not capable of a great pas- 
sion which could enable him to scale the 
world, to stand with the woman he loved 
above it all, and look down to see it spin- 
ning at his feet. There had been brief 
moments when such a thing had seemed 
possible — moments of moonlight mad- 
ness, when, if he banished Sleep, he could 
not free himself from her host of circling 
dreams. But they had vanished now, 
and given place to a final wakefulness 
of soul in which he judged himself in- 
capable of any stronger love than that 
which he felt for Sissy. At the thought 
of her his heart leapt up in protecting 
tenderness and the grave lips curved 
in an involuntary smile. "As pure and 
sweet as a flower," he thought; "and — 
God help her! — as delicate." 

Percival recognized the fact that at 


88 


^^FOR percival: 


four o’clock in the morning it would 
not do to begin singing 

If she love me, this believe, 

I will die ere she shall grieve, 

though nothing would have expressed 
his feelings better. There would have 
been a happy smiling stress on the "If,” 
which, even while emphasizing the word, 
would have rendered it almost unneces- 
sary. As he could not sing it, he mur- 
mured it under his breath, glowing with 
a defiant consciousness of power at the 
second line. He had no misgivings. As 
he guarded his lady through that dreary 
night he royally decreed that a blaze of 
sunshine should light her path hence- 
forward. He would spend himself for 
his darling little Sissy : in very truth he 
would die ere she should grieve, though 
he smiled to think that his death would 
be the one unconquerable grief. His 
knowledge had been gained from Sis- 
sy’s eyes that night. 

Where now was the man who had 
declared that, being a drone with but 
a scanty income, he could ask no girl 
richer than himself to share his life ? 
Leaning idly back in his arm-chair, se- 
cure of winning Sissy with her eight hun- 
dred a year, where was that old resolu- 
tion uttered so earnestly in a bygone 
June? Or where were those soft June 
shadows this black November night? 

After all, the change in his sentiments 
was more apparent than real. He had 
meant, " I could not go an empty-hand- 
ed idler to Judith Lisle;” and that was 
true in November as in June. But he 
had dressed up his intensely personal 
idea as a general principle, to make it 
more fit for society, not meaning to de- 
ceive any one, but mechanically, as he 
would have put on his dress-coat for a 
dinner-party. It was not a general prin- 
ciple, however : it did not apply to Sissy. 
If he were a drone, she was the idlest of 
butterflies, and he felt no shame that the 
share of gold which chance had allotted 
to him was somewhat less than hers. 
Perhaps it would not be smaller in the 
end, for Percival, who had shrunk from 
making the least claim on his grandfa- 
ther, lest it should be acknowledged and 
met by a counter - claim which might 


abridge his liberty, was thinking, as he 
sat sketching Sissy’s future and his own, 
that after all he had rights. 

A housemaid, yawning loudly and 
sounding very slipshod as she came 
down the passage, stumbled over his 
boots outside the door, and recovered 
herself and her candlestick with a clatter. 

"Aurora !” thought Percival. " Rosy- 
fingered with chilblains, no doubt, and 
come to end my vigil.” 

Ten minutes later he was fast asleep, 
and, with the strange perversity of 
dreams, neither Sissy Langton nor Ju- 
dith Lisle passed through his visions 
that night. Instead of them came Lot- 
tie Blake, her wide 'clear eyes fixed on 
him, her brier-scratched hand held out 
in greeting, and the red cap flung on the 
blackness of her hair. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

LOVE* IN A MIST. 

If it were possible for us to look into 
the future, there would be, I imagine, a 
considerable increase of rather bitter hu- 
mor in our lives and a considerable fall- 
ing off in sentiment. We should sud- 
denly grow very old while yet young 
and vigorous, and should be left without 
that tenderness for our vanished youth 
which naturally belongs to old age. 

Percival, as he dressed, was thinking 
of Horace, of Brackenhill, of Sissy, of 
Parliament. Should he stand for Ford- 
borough or not ? He debated the ques- 
tion, all unconscious of the ironical smile 
worn by the veiled future standing very 
close at hand. Will you be M. P. for 
Fordborough? Consider it well, Perci- 
val. Twelve months hence you may, 
with equal benefit to yourself and your 
friends, consider whether you will be the 
Man in the Moon. 

No : he thought not. He was indolent 
to the core, and the contest would be a 
weariness to him. But he would not say 
so. He was too conscious of his indo- 
lence to use the languid manner so much 
in vogue. Still, he thought not. He was 
fastidious, and it occurred to him that 
the Fordborough roughs would probably 


FERCIVALF 


89 


throw things at him and call him by some 
coarse and foolish nickname. Again a 
motive not to be avowed. Who could 
own that his political career was cut short 
by the fear of a rotten egg ? Finally, he 
thought of a certain Fordborough trades- 
man who must be canvassed, a stout and 
unctuous grocer, who professed to hold 
very advanced views, and who would 
rejoice — Percival instinctively felt how 
offensively the man would rejoice — over 
the conversion of the Tory squire of 
Brackenhill. “I don’t know how my 
grandfather would stand it,” he mused: 
" I believe I should pledge myself to 
ultra-Conservatism^ on the spot. I can’t 
do it.” But even here was no motive 
which could be put forward to represent 
the rest. How could he say, ” I will not 
stand in the Liberal interest because Mr. 
Simpkin would be pleased”? Yet add 
to these three reasons the fact that Sissy 
was making his level life ripple very pleas- 
antly with excitement and speculation, so 
that he had no need to look elsewhere 
for interest, and you will have the causes, 
as far as he could make them out, which 
led to Percival’s decision. And I do not 
suppose that he was the first who has 
been bothered by having a host of small 
motives when all he wanted was one that 
was big enough to be acknowledged. 

I do not intend to conceal any folly 
of Percival’s. When he had dressed he 
stood and looked at himself in the glass 
with interest and a little pardonable van- 
ity. The mirror gave him back the por- 
trait of a fine young fellow with a dark, 
intense face. People did not consider 
him as handsome as Horace. He knew 
in his own heart that he was not as hand- 
some. Some might look at Horace who 
would never look at him, but whoever 
really looked at him would look again. 
He smiled and went down stairs, sing- 
ing to himself, ” If she love me, this be- 
lieve — ” Duncan was in the hall scold- 
ing George. The butler paused when he 
heard approaching footsteps, and the 
poor victim stole an anxious glance at 
young Mr. Thorne, who went by with 
his head high, looking so prosperous 
and unconcerned. Percival kept a strict- 
ly neutral expression on his face. "Fin 


not going to forgive the idiot for fright- 
ening Sissy half out of her wits,” he 
thought. “At the same time, if she wants 
the poor wretch spared — ” and he open- 
ed the door of the breakfast-room and 
went into the pleasant glow of warmth 
and the fragrance of coffee. Sissy greet- 
ed him with a heightened color and 
averted eyes. Aunt Harriet was not 
happy till he was established at her 
elbow in a convenient place for petting. 
The dear old lady was still half afraid 
that he might have thought her unkind 
the night before. 

Percival ate and drank, looked up and 
laughed. ‘Aunt Harriet,” he said, ‘‘tell 
me how you remember people you have 
met. / think of their height, features, 
voice and walk, but I fancy you think 
of them something in this fashion : Mr. 
Smith — tea very sweet — great weakness 
for red mullet — thinks all fruit unwhole- 
some with the exception of peaches. Or 
Miss Jones — likes muffins — detests curry 
— remarkably fond of raspberry cream. 
Isn’t it so ?” 

Mrs. Middleton smiled: ‘‘Oh, I gene- 
rally remember what people say they 
like.” 

‘‘ Pardon me,” said Percival decidedly, 
‘‘but it isn’t that. That is nothing, worse 
than nothing — sometimes it is sickening. 
I was in a house once where, being very 
hungry, I praised some minced veal which 
they gave me. The next day there was 
a further supply of minced veal, merely 
as an ornamental companion to an un- 
pleasant dish which they thought deli- 
cious. I had no alternative. Instantly 
it was decided that there was nothing I 
should like so well at all times as a dish 
of minced veal. They rush and kill the 
fatted calf for me the moment they hear 
of my coming, as if I were the Prodigal 
Son, not reflecting that even he didn’t 
have to eat the entire animal minced. 
Besides, he had the.advantage of me, for 
he was half starved. I feel their kind- 
ness, I love them for it, and I shall never 
cross their threshold again unless there 
should be an unparalleled outbreak of 
rinderpest.” 

‘‘I should think not,” said Aunt Har- 
riet: ‘‘I could tell better than that.” 


90 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


“Of course you could,” he smiled: 
“ yours is not knowledge, it is sympathy. 
Some fine tact tells you when one likes 
a thing. You can distinguish between a 
moment’s whim and a lasting passion.” 

Mrs. Middleton poured some milk into 
a saucer for her favorite cat: “Ah ! if I 
could only judge like that in other things, 
what a wise woman I should be !” 

“And how we should all hate you!” 
said Percival. “No, no: let us believe 
every whim eternal, since we must needs 
swear that it is so.” 

The door opened, and Mr. Thorne 
came in with his hands full of newspa- 
pers. He could scarcely find time to 
greet Mrs. Middleton and Sissy, he was 
so eager to show his grandson what was 
said of old Bridgman and the probable 
future of Fordborough. But the young 
man hardly glanced at the paragraphs. 
“ I must have a word with you, sir,” he 
said. 

“Yes?” the squire questioned. “Well, 
that’s right. To tell you the truth, Per- 
cival, Fve wanted a word with you for 
some time. We must settle things a 
little.” 

The younger Thorne, looking up, 
caught a glance from Sissy’s dilated 
eyes. It brought to his memory the 
frightened look which George the foot- 
man fixed on him as he passed through 
the hall. He could not help it. The 
scared expression was the same in both, 
but he was angry with himself that any- 
thing in Sissy’s beautiful face should re- 
mind him of that lout. And why was 
she ill at ease ? It should not be for long : 

If she love me, this believe, 

I will die ere she shall grieve. 

He followed his grandfather to the li- 
brary. The old man sat down, but Per- 
cival chose to stand, with his elbow on 
the chimney-piece and his eyes fixed on 
the restless little flames which licked a 
half-burnt log. “ I’ve made up my mind 
not to try for the Fordborough seat,” he 
said. 

“ Eh ? Why not ?” Mr. Thorne had 
lain awake a great part of the night fore- 
seeing wounds to his pride and half in- 
clined to regret the offer he had made. 
But when Percival quietly put it aside he 


was disappointed. “ What are your rea- 
sons ?” he reiterated. 

“ Such small ones that the real reason 
must be that I don’t take a deep interest 
in' political questions,” Percival replied. 
“ They would be as dust in the balance 
if there were any weight in the opposite 
scale. There is none, and they have 
turned it.” 

“ I’m sorry,” said the other curtly. 

His grandson turned and looked cu- 
riously at him : “ Why, you cannot real- 
ly wish for a Radical at Fordborough. 
And if it’s only on my account — ” 

“ I’m sorry,” Godfrey Thorne repeat- 
ed. “I think I hoped that you would 
settle down, give up your wandering life, 
have an ambition and look forward a lit- 
tle. But it seems it is not to be.” 

“ I needn’t contest a borough for that, 
surely,” said the young man with a smile. 

“ If I could only see you married I” his 
grandfather went on. “You are the last 
of us all, Percival : do you ever think of 
that ? In the natural course of things you 
will outlive poor Horace — and then ?” 

“ Horace will come back strong and 
well, I hope, and live to have sons of 
his own,” said I^srcival. He spoke the 
more energetically that he felt a sudden 
assurance that what his grandfather said 
was true, and that he would be the last 
of the Thornes and the final heir of the 
beautiful old manor-house, which year 
by year he was learning to love. 

“ Horace have sons ? Poor sickly 
things like their father and his father 1” 
Godfrey answered bitterly — “nipped and 
dying off like plants in an east wind. 
No, no, Percival : I must be very hope- 
ful or very despairing when I take to 
building on that.” 

The young man was saying to him- 
self, “ Since I have decided, better seal 
my decision.” So he replied, “You build 
on me, then ? Very good. But whether 
I marry or not doesn’t depend on me.” 

Mr. Thorne was on his feet in a mo- 
ment, stammering in his eagerness : 
“ What ? what ? on me, then ? Is it 
money you are thinking of, Percival ?” 

The younger Thorne remained as be- 
fore, with his head a little bent. 

“Mine’s only a bachelor’s income, I 


FOR PERCIVALF 


91 


suppose,” he said. “And yet it doesn’t 
depend on you. I’m going to ask Sissy 
if she’ll have me. If she will, I might 
lose my last penny, and it would only 
make her cling to me the more. And 
if she won’t, why, all Brackenhill in my 
hand wouldn’t help me.” 

He was so careful not to betray the 
easy confidence which filled his heart 
that his last words had quite a despond- 
ent ring in them, and the squire was 
very much alarmed. However, he de- 
clared what he would do for the young 
couple: “I’ll make it all right on the 
wedding-day: you shall have as much 
as Sissy, or more if you want it. And 
afterward — You must wait till the old 
man dies, Percival — not very long now, 
not very long. Must hold the reins to 
the last. But then I think you’ll be sat- 
isfied. I think so.” 

“I don’t think I want so much that I 
am very hard to satisfy,” said his grand- 
son. 

“ That you are not. I wish you were 
harder sometimes : I want you to ask and 
have. Horace can ask fast enough when 
he wants anything, aij^ Sissy can come 
smiling and coaxing for her pretty little 
-whims; but never you, my boy, never 
once.” 

“And never will,” said the young fel- 
low to himself. He was touched by the 
sorrowful longing of the old squire’s tone, 
but he set his face like a flint and steeled • 
his heart against it. “ I should be scorn- 
ed as soon as won,” thought he. So far 
as he must sacrifice his independence for 
Sissy’s sake, he would do it, but he would 
ask for nothing, and he was resolved to 
take nothing, but what was offered un- 
conditionally. 

“ You’re too proud to give the old man 
the little bit of pleasure he wants — just 
the thought that you can’t get on with- 
out him, that you count on him, and 
come to him in any need. When you 
first set foot in my house, a solemn boy, 
weighing out your words and looking 
watchfully about you, I said, ‘ Ah well ! 
wait a while. He doesn’t know his old 
home and his old grandfather yet : he’ll 
thaw soon.’ But you never have. You 
stand aloof and hold me at arm’s length. 


I was hard on your father, it’s true ; but, 
after all, he wouldn’t have had Bracken- 
hill, would he ? You’ll outlive me. I’ve 
wronged you, no doubt, but I’ll do all I 
can — more than you think, perhaps — to 
make amends. Can’t you forgive me ?” 

“I have nothing to forgive,” said Per- 
cival loftily. “All that my father lost 
was well lost for my mother’s sake. It 
was a fair bargain, he to go his way, and 
you yours. Neither he nor I complain 
of it, as #ie would tell you were he living 
now. I make no claim, sir, and I never 
will.” 

“ But you will not refuse to take what 
I give you ?” the other entreated. 

Percival’s mind was made up, yet he 
hesitated. His independence seemed 
slipping through his fingers, and, like 
most things, was dearest at the moment 
of loss. “No, I won’t refuse,” he said at 
last. “Yet stay. On what conditions do 
you offer it?” 

“None. You shall be as free as be- 
fore.” 

Percival shook his head : “ Impos- 

sible !” 

“ But you shall. It shall be yours ab- 
solutely : you shall do what you please 
with it.” 

“And suppose I do anything which 
displeases you — ” Percival began. 

“You will not displease me,” said the 
squire. “And nothing shall make any 
difference.” 

“It must make a difference,” mur- 
mured Percival. 

“Upon my word,” Mr. Thorne ex- 
claimed, “you’re the hardest man to 
deal with I ever came across. Tell me 
what would please you, if you will be so 
kind. Anything that comes from dead- 
and-gone Percivals, I suppose, and no- 
thing that comes from me. Say what 
you will, though : you’re a Thorne, after 
all, and isn’t it right and fit that you 
should have something from Bracken- 
hill ?” 

(Oh wonderful concession from God- 
frey Thorne, that any human being had 
right to part or lot in Brackenhill !) 

“You needn’t fear,” he went on. “I’ll 
ask but one thing from you in return.” 

“Ah!” And Percival turned swiftly 


92 


FOR PERCIVAL. 


and fixed his great eyes on him. The 
cloven foot was peeping^ out at last, he 
thought. “And that is — ?” he demanded. 

“That you’ll be happy.’’ 

“ Oh ! Well, to accommodate you, I’ll 
try,’’ said Percival, forgetful that happi- 
ness, like sleep, comes not with trying. 
“But it all depends on Sissy, you know.’’ 

Did it ? He asked himself the ques- 
tion as he crossed the hall in search of 
her. He thought it did. But who could 
tell what would be for his happiness, say, 
in seven years’ time ? This, however, he 
knew — that he wanted Sissy, wanted to 
pet her and call her his own, to lift her 
out of her mysterious sorrow, set her on 
high, his queen and darling, and do bat- 
tle for her with all the world if need were. 
In love with her ? Deeply? Passionate- 
ly ? Of course he was. But Mr. Perci- 
val Thorne had surely no business to be 
able to speculate concerning the nature 
and duration of happiness as he went 
on his way that morning. 

Not in the drawing-room, not in the 
breakfast - room, not in her own little 
sitting-room up stairs, where he had the 
right of entry. In the hall lay a soft felt 
hat of his, which Mrs. Middleton hated 
because she said it made him look like a 
brigand. He caught it up and went out 
into the garden. 

It was a foggy, slate-colored day, with 
a faint breeze, which came now and then 
like a long-drawn sigh. The evergreens 
dropped heavy tears upon the sodden 
soil. The dull curtain of cloud hung 
so low that it forced you to wonder what 
it concealed. It was impossible to im- 
agine that the arch of sunny blue could 
be behind it: it rather seemed as if it 
must veil some ghastly whiteness. Per- 
cival, who came out whistling a tune, 
paused, looked up at the clouds and 
round at the dank and dripping world, 
and, after a useless search on the terrace 
and in the conservatory, went with noise- 
less steps across the spongy turf. “Sissy 
has no business out to-day,’’ he thought : 
“ I’ll bring her in. Why, one might paint 
the whole thing with a wash of India 
ink, then wipe most of it out again with 
a wet sponge, and the result would be 
a tolerably faithful representation of this 


delicious atmospherical effect.’’ His short 
cut had brought him to a high yew hedge, 
through which he passed into a shelter- 
ed enclosure, formal and trim, where old 
traditions lived from year to year in new- 
ly-springing green. That it looked dreary 
was a proof of the utter dreariness of the 
day, for Percival had noticed many a 
time that if a stray sunbeam found its 
way within those walls of green, it seem- 
ed to be entangled there and to linger, 
feebly brightening the stiff hedges, the 
yellow paths and the bushy borderings 
of box, when there was no sunlight any- 
where else. Even to-day the clipped 
yews were a little less mournful than 
sweeping cedars on the lawn. “Upon 
my word,’’ said Percival to himself, “ our 
ancestors, barbarous though their taste 
might be, understood gardening for a 
foggy November day. For clearness 
of outline in this universal smear give 
me two pepper-boxes, a lion and a dol- 
phin when old Knowles has lately been 
at them with his shears.’’ He passed 
the fountain in the middle, whose once 
white stone had been softened by time 
to mossy gray-green. “What a merciful 
thing it isn’t spouting now !’’ he thought 
with a shiver, eying the portly presid- 
ing Neptune over his shoulder as he 
went by. “A fellow ought to put on a 
blue coat and powder his hair to do his 
courting here. — Sissy !’’ 

No answer. Percival and Neptune 
had the winter-garden all to themselves. 
When he had convinced himself of this 
fact he tilted the soft hat a little more 
over his brows, and stood with his hands 
deep in his pockets, a very nineteenth- 
century figure indeed, lost in profound 
thought and staring at the dolphin. 
Should he seek farther or not ? An 
arm-chair by the fireside would be very 
comfortable, and where to look for Sissy 
next he hardly knew. But the slight 
check had quickened his eagerness, and 
he started again in search of her, deter 
mined not to be baffled, though he should 
have to cross the park and look for her 
in the village. 

He had hardly made up his mind to 
this when he found her. All at once he 
came in sight of a melancholy little figure 


FOR PERCIVALF 


93 


wandering to and fro, and he stopped to 
look, himself unseen. 

It was a lonely part of the grounds, 
half kitchen - garden, half orchard, and 
Sissy paced slowly along a mossy path, 
with apple and cherry boughs above her 
head. It was not a cheerful place. Per- 
cival remembered that he had liked and 
praised it once in the spring, when buds 
were swelling on the trees and' strong 
green shoots were pushing through the 
earth. It was fairer yet when the angu- 
lar branches overhead were heaped with 
faintly-flushed flowers or loaded with the 
snow of cherry-blossom. But now blos- 
som and fruit alike were gone, and only 
a few poor leaves, yellowing and coarse, 
hung feebly on the boughs and shook 
against the curtain of dull gray. Under 
them, weary yet restless, went the little 
figure, pacing to and fro. 

Percival stood gazing. To him there 
came a little gust of wind with a startled 
shiver, and departed as it came. The 
silence which followed was so strangely 
sad that the glowing fervor of his glance 
was quenched and it grew resolute and 
grave. 

“ Sissy !” he called aloud : “ Sissy !” 

She turned her head slowly and lifted 
great pathetic eyes, full of the apprehen- 
sive expression they had learned of late. 
As he came forward, with the shadow on 
his dark face, she shrank a little, as if he 
had frightened her, not stepping back, 
but drawing herself together. In an- 
other moment, however, she had recov- 
ered her self-possession and greeted him 
with a faint smile. He smiled in answer, 
and turned to walk by her side. The 
frightened look gradually forsook her 
eyes, only to come back with his first 
words. 

They had walked almost the length of 
the path in silence, but near the farther 
end Percival halted and stood kicking 
a pebble which was embedded in the 
ground. "Sissy,” he said (she had also 
paused, two or three steps away, half 
lingering, half longing to escape) — "Sis- 
sy, tell me what’s the matter with you. 
You are as different as night from day 
from what you used to be. You are like 
the girl in Auld Rohm Gray. You ‘ gang 


like a ghaist,’ Sissy, and you ‘ carena 
much to spin.’ Why is it so, dear?” 

“ I suppose that means that I don’t 
often do any tatting now. Percival, I 
don’t think I ever did care much about 
it. It isn’t good for anything when it’s 
done.” 

He took a step toward her. "You 
were always an idle little woman, were- 
n’t you ?” he said gently. " But you 
used to be so bright. And now — ” Af- 
ter a moment’s pause he spoke in a tone 
of abrupt command: "Sissy, lift your 
head — look up at me. Ah, you can’t : 
your eyes are full of tears.” 

They brimmed over and fell, tears of 
childish compassion for herself. 

"Tell me, dear,” he went on, resum- 
ing his former manner, "can I help you 
in any way ? Is anything wrong ?” 

She shook her head. 

"But there must be,” he persisted grave- 
ly. " Don’t you see how sad the whole 
house is because you are unhappy ?” 

" Don’t tease me so,” she said hurried- 
ly. Then, "Oh, Percival, be good to 
me : don’t scold me.” 

"Scold you! never!” A beseeching 
little hand had been laid on his sleeve, 
and quick as thought his own had cov- 
ered and clasped the quivering fingers. 
" Be good to you ! I love you far too 
well to be anything else. Sissy, let me 
be good to you always. Will you marry 
me, dear, and whatever troubles may be 
in store for us, let us face them together?” 

It was briefly spoken in Percival’s earn- 
est voice. There was no need for many 
words. 

She looked up into his face, and he 
was startled by her perplexed and fright- 
ened glance. But the next moment it 
had vanished, and she let him draw her 
to him and laid her cheek on his shoul- 
der, as if she had found her happy rest- 
ing-place at last. 

When he lifted his head again it seem- 
ed to him that a slight but unmistakable 
change had passed over the sorrowful 
landscape. The autumn leaves which 
shook against the sky surely were stirred 
by a faint yet most tender breath of spring. 
The heavy veil of gray was lifted a little, 
and lightened by a yellow gleam. There 


94 


*^FOR PERCIVALF 


was something vernal even in the damp 
and chilly air, and Percival would hard- 
ly have been surprised had the garden- 
beds shown a few pale and leafless flow- 
ers, heralds of a bright array to come. 

As they stood under the black orchard- 
boughs she was silent and clinging, he 
was confident and proud. The song 
which had haunted his midnight watch 
haunted him still, and he whistled it, 
with his arm round Sissy. 

“What is that?” she said. 

For all answer, instead of whistling, he 
softly sang. 

If she love me, this believe, 

I will die ere she shall grieve, 

and looked down at her with eloquent 
eyes. 

“Does that mean me, Percival ?” 

“My darling girl,” laughed Percival, 
“ do you suppose it could possibly mean 
any one else ?” 

She laughed too, and then sighed. 

“So, you see,” he went on, “we must 
be as happy as if our engagement com- 
menced on the very last page of a three- 
volume novel.” 

“No, no,” said Sissy, “I don’t like 
that. Please, don’t talk as if the ro- 
mance were all done. No : I'll wish it 
to be at the beginning of a novel, not 
at the end.” 

Percival assumed a tragic attitude of 
despair. Then he smiled again: “Oh, 
the ill-omened wish ! If a spiteful fairy 
should be hiding behind one of those 
apple trees, we are ruined. Sissy — utter- 
ly undone. Don’t you know that first- 
volume marriages cannot turn out well ? 
They ought to be forbidden by act of 
Parliament. Jealousy — weariness — mis- 
understandings — fiends instead of friends 
— secrets of the most uncomfortable kind, 
— do not all these belong to first-volume 
marriages? You get safer as you ap- 
proach the end of the third, but the last 
paragraph is the best. The artist is tired, 
so he dashes in an expanse of cloudless 
blue — saves detail. The writer has had 
enough, so he scribbles in ' rapture, bliss,’ 
and would be glad to know what fault 
any one can find with that. Never mind 
the romance. Sissy : it’s sure to give one 
a brain fever, an accident or two, a hair’s- 


breadth escape from the tide, and threads 
of silver in one’s still abundant hair. 
Let’s stick to the last page, where there 
isn’t even time to find out that we are 
quite different people to what we were 
always supposed to be. What a shock 
it would be,” he went on, “to have to 
practise a new signature — wouldn’t one 
dream of being tried for forgery every 
night? — and to discover that one had 
two quite new grandmothers, perhaps 
some uncles and aunts and innumerable 
first and second cousins ! What do you 
say. Sissy ?” 

“ I think, perhaps, it had better be the 
last page,” she said, ignoring the fact 
that the decision hardly rested with her 
or with him. “You mustn’t change, any- 
how, Percival : you must ne;yer change.” 

“Everything changes,” said he as he 
kicked the mossy stone from its resting- 
place. “ And everybody changes except 
mummies. They don’t, I suppose, but 
I hope I’m not a mummy. My foolish 
darling, don’t look so sad and scared. 
Don’t you know that the secret of love 
is that we shall change together, and al- 
ways draw nearer?” 

She smiled, but was only half con- 
vinced. “Don’t change much, then,” 
she said, “or I sha’n’t keep pace with 
you.” 

How often it happens that we cannot 
say what we should like to say ! As they 
walked toward the house Sissy would 
have liked to say, “Percival, why did 
you go to meet Miss Adelaide Blake 
that night in Langley Wood ?” Not that 
she distrusted him. On the contrary, 
her trust in him was very nearly perfect, 
or she would have feared both question 
and answer, only she felt that she should 
have liked to know. 

If the question had been put, it would 
have been met by a counter -question 
from Percival ; and most likely there 
would have been a little light thrown on 
a mystery or two, and a change effected 
in my hero’s destiny. But for several 
reasons the question was an impossible 
one to put, and Sissy contented herself 
with something more general. 

“ Why, no,” said Percival in reply. “ I 
certainly won’t say that I never thought 


PERCIVALF 


95 



If she love me, this believe, 

I will die ere she shall grieve.” — Page 94. 


anything about any girl before. And if 
I could say it, it would only^ prove me to 
be a dull, cold-blooded fellow, I think. 
But, Sissy, it would be folly to compare 


my thoughts of any others, at any time, 
with my thoughts of you to-day.” 

Sissy was content. As they drew near 
the house she looked up at the window 




96 


^^FOR PERCIVALR 


which had caused her so much anxiety 
a few hours earlier. 

“No burglars came, after all,” said 
Percival. “You slept well ? Ah! that’s 
right. It was more than Master George 
did. I’ll be bound.” 

“ Have you said anything to Duncan 
or anybody ?” 

“Not yet.” The tone threatened a 
speedy disclosure. 

There are things painful at the time 
they occur, but pleasant, and even pre- 
cious, as memories. Sissy felt almost 
grateful to George. “Don’t say any- 
thing about it, please.” 

“ My dear child, your kindness would 
be utterly wasted,” said Percival. “He 
will never do any good : he is much too 
stupid.” 

“/feel just like that sometimes,” said 
Sissy pensively. 

“Good Heavens! You are not going 
to compare yourself to George, I hope !” 
Percival exclaimed, with the more heat 
because he remembered that likeness in 
their frightened eyes which had so an- 
noyed him. 

“Not if you don’t like it. But you 
don’t mean to say No to the first thing 
I ask you T' 

He shrugged his shoulders.: “I yield, 
of course. George is spared, but, as he 
has no idea that he has alarmed any one 
but myself, he will not know to whom he 
is indebted. Consequently, he will feel 
no gratitude, but, comparing my resolute 
language of last night with my meek be- 
havior of to-day, he will decide that I am 
rather soft. Be it so. But why do you 
care about it. Sissy?” 

“ I don’t know. Only, somehow, I feel 
as if I shouldn’t like a spider to be hurt 
to-day.” 

He whistled: “Oh! if it has come to 
that — ” 

For Sissy, who would cheerfully con- 
front a caterpillar of the first magnitude, 
or a family party of earwigs collected for 
a great house-warming in a dahlia, or 
even a black beetle if the tongs were 
very handy, had a horror of spiders. 
She could not account for it. “ Too 
many legs, don’t you think?” she had 
said once, but she was reminded that 


when a large centipede walked straight 
at her out of a dish of filberts, and even 
the squire was discomposed, she had 
calmly encountered and vanquished the 
intruder, without stopping to reckon the 
number of his legs. So she gave it up, 
only suggesting that she thought it 7night 
be that they were alike all round and she 
didn’t know which way they were going 
to run. At any rate, the fact remained 
that she had a nervous horror of spiders, 
and always flew at one with the agonized 
ferocity which is born of extreme fear. 
So, when she said she should not like a 
spider to be hurt, Percival knew that she 
was indeed in charity with all created 
things. And George was pardoned. 

Mrs. Middleton heard of the engage- 
ment without much surprise, and with 
some pleasure. Her cherished day- 
dream, the marriage of her two favor- 
ites, had already become a thing of the 
past. It had been very bright and real 
to her in old days, when Horace was a 
tall, handsome lad who idolized little Sis- 
sy, carried her on his shoulder, bought 
presents for her with his pocket-money, 
and spoiled her so that she cared for no 
one else while he was home for the holi- 
days. Aunt Harriet could remember the 
dreadful night or two at the beginning 
of each quarter when Sissy refused com- 
fort and sobbed herself to sleep, only to 
dream that Horace had come back, and 
to awake and weep anew. But of late 
years, though at times she had hoped, I 
think she knew in her heart that it was 
in vain. What could have drawn Sissy 
away from Horace to Pefcival she could 
not imagine. Since, however, her dream 
was not to be realized — and in poor Hor- 
ace’s state of health she could not even 
wish it — she allowed that Percival Thorne 
would do as well as any one else in the 
neighborhood. Better than young Wil- 
liam Falconer, who was much too fond 
of billiards, or Harry Hardwicke, their 
lawyer’s son, who was a nice fellow and 
would be tolerably well off, but was not 
overburdened with brains. Mrs. Mid- 
dleton could not get rid of her old doubt 
whether she really knew Percival. But 
if Sissy liked him, that was the principal 
thing, and the old lady believed that he 


^^FOR percival: 


97 


might make her darling happy. “You 
will take great care of her, won’t you ?“ 
she said anxiously. “And you won’t be 
hard on her? Promise me, Percival.” 

“Hard on Sissy!” said the young fel- 
low after an interval of speechless amaze- 
ment. “ What can you possibly be think- 
ing of. Aunt Harriet? Shall I promise 
you at the same time that I won’t mur- 
der your maid nor brutally ill-use my 
grandfather ?” 

Mr. Thorne was delighted beyond ex- 
pression. His great idea seemed to be 
that he must pet Sissy in some way, and 
he racked his brains to discover what 
would please her. 

She laughed at him. “You would like 
to put an extra lump of sugar in my tea, 
wouldn’t you ?” she said, “ or to spread 
some on my bread and butter ? I know 
you would.” 

“ You are much too grown up for that, 
my dear.” 

“ I suppose I am. Oh, it’s a dreadful 
thing, being grown up I” 

“Is it? You don’t mean that. Sissy, 
so I won’t tell tales of you. What can 
we find to console you for having ceased 
to take pleasure in sugared bread and 
butter ?” 

“Percival does as well as anything,” 
said Sissy. 

“ No doubt. At the same time, is there 
any reason why we should not get some 
1 of the old diamonds reset ?” 

I Her eyes were brighter than the pro- 
I mised stones: “Percival likes diamonds, 

! and — and — so do I.” And Mr. Thorne 
i wrote to a jeweller on the subject that 
■ very day. 

i Godfrey Hammond heard of the ap- 
J preaching marriage, and said to himself, 

1 “ I told you so.” He would often take 
considerable trouble to bring about the 
[.events he predicted, merely that he might 
(say those four words. In this case he 

I 7 


had proved a true prophet without any 
effort on his part, so no doubt he was 
pleased, though he made no further re- 
mark than “ Happy pair — to be so young I” 
and proceeded to arrange the details of a 
select little dinner-party. 

Three people heard the news far away. 
One laid down the letter and said, “ So 
that is the end of all Master Percy’s fine 
talk ? and a very quick end too. He was 
never going to marry a girl with a farth- 
ing more than he had himself. Why, 
Sissy has eight hundred a year, if she 
has a penny.” 

“And how do you know he has not as 
much as she has ?” asked the lady by his 
side. 

“ He ? Oh no I I know he hasn’t 
anything like that. Oh ! I see what 
you mean. Of course I can’t tell what 
the governor has done.” 

“Old Aunt Middleton is very fond of 
Sissy, isn’t she ?” 

“ Fond of Sissy ? I should think she 
was ! Dear little Sissy ! I hope she’ll 
be happy.” 

“Then, my dear boy, you have lost 
your last friend at Brackenhill.” 

“ Rubbish !” was the hasty answer. 
“Why shouldn’t she be my friend still, 
and Sissy too ?” 

“Oh, well, of course they may, if your 
cousin Percival pleases. Perhaps he will.” 

The first speaker turned impatiently 
away to the silent member of the party, 
who was looking out of the window with 
a preoccupied face, and who hardly 
moved at the touch of his hand. 

“And what do you say?” he inquired. 

“Nothing.” 

“ But you have been listening, haven’t 
you ? I want you to say something.” 

“ Then I will say this : Mr. Percival 
Thorne means to have everything his 
own way. And if you let him — ” 



9 


98 


^'FOR PERCIVALr 


CHAPTER XIX. — SISSY CONSULTS HER ORACLE. 



IMAGINE that a woman 
who has no fuss made 
about her wedding must 
feel much as a man might if he could 
wake up and find that he had eaten a 
good dinner while in a state of uncon- 
sciousness. The desired end would be 
attained in both cases — she would be 
married and he would be fed — but I 
think the two sufferers would agree that 
it was attained in a most unsatisfactory 
way. Of course there are exceptions — 
women who do not care about orange- 
blossoms and feeble speech-making, as 
there are men who eat to live, not to 
mention those who profess not to care. 
But Sissy belonged to neither division 
of exceptions. She liked the pomps and 
vanities of an orthodox wedding; and 
she owned it. White satin was the pomp 
which she especially desired, but she felt 
bound to consult Percival on the subject. 
“Should you like me in that?" she in- 
quired. 

He replied that he thought it very like- 
ly he should — that he liked her very well 
as far as he had gone, and would endeav- 
or to preserve his sentiments unchanged 
— at any rate, through the honeymoon. 

Sissy sighed over his folly, and told 


him that she wouldn’t say another word. 
But she went off to Aunt Harriet, and to- 
gether they planned wedding - raiment 
which should fall in beautiful folds of 
sheen and shade. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Thorne was planning 
great rejoicings — dinner for all the ten- 
ants, a feast for the school-children, flags, 
arches, bonfires and fireworks. Mrs. Mid- 
dleton would have been better pleased 
with these schemes had the bridegroom 
been any one but Percival. Who would 
not suppose that these great doings mark- 
ed the marriage of the heir ? 

“What then ?’’ said the squire. 

“ But he is not your heir.’’ 

“ If he isn’t, what does it signify ? Let 
those laugh that win. Horace, for in- 
stance, when he wins.’’ 

“You are having the diamonds set for 
Sissy.’’ Mrs. Middleton was divided be- 
tween pleasure and vexation. It seem- 
ed like treachery to her absent favorite. 

“Why not? I shall never like Hor- 
ace’s wife as well as I like Percival’s. 
Shall you?’’ 

She was silenced for the time. But, 
choosing a moment when Sissy was out 
of the way, she said, not exactly to Per- 
cival, yet in his hearing, “I hope the 



^*FOR PERCIVALr 


99 


wedding will be late enough in the year 
for Horace to be with us. I shouldn’t 
like people to think that we made all 
this fuss as if he were of no account 
and never coming back.” 

Mr. Thorne exclaimed angrily, “ Har- 
riet, what are you talking about ? are 
you out of your mind ? Of course he is 
coming back — some time or other. As 
to the wedding, I dare say we may man- 
age to make it secure and legal either 
way.” But Percival vowed to himself 
that the day should be so fixed as to 
make sure of Horace’s return. 

He talked to Sissy about it, and she 
quite agreed with him. At least, she 
said she did, and that in a very eager 
tone. So they decided that the wedding 
should be late in the spring or early in 
the summer. But why did he go away 
with the idea that there was an under- 
current of fear and anxiety in her mind, 
and that she would rather not see Hor- 
ace among the guests t He pondered 
the matter a while, and then told him- 
self that he was a fool for his pains. 

He ought to have been very happy 
that winter. He was devoted to Sissy, 
and was almost continually at Bracken- 
hill. But he was anxious and uneasy. 
Even when he was in one of his silent 
moods he would follow her with his eyes 
or pay her mute little attentions. How- 
ever absent he might seem to be, he al- 
ways heard when Sissy spoke, and never 
forgot what she said. He gave his mind 
wholly to the fulfilment of his pledge — 

I will die ere she shall grieve — 

and knew that he gave it in vain. For 
in her wayward April fashion Sissy was 
grieving still. 

There were days when she was bright 
and laughing — others when she was 
shrinking and sad. Percival was baf- 
fled. He had expected to have his own 
way in everything, and intended to use 
his power wisely and tenderly for Sissy’s 
good. Instead of which she perplexed 
him. Formerly she denied that there 
was anything the matter with her. Now 
she changed her tactics, owned that she 
thought she was not very well, and thus 
accounted for low spirits and nervous 


fears. She was willing to see a doctor 
— two doctors — half a dozen if they liked. 
But they were very silly, she thought. If 
they left her alone she would soon be all 
right, of course. She rather thought it 
was the weather. January was too cold, 
February was just as bad, March was too 
windy and bleak. In the latter month 
she put off her recovery for a little while, 
expressing a fear that April would be too 
showery — 

‘‘And May too flowery, I suppose?” 
said Percival in a tone of tender chi- 
ding. ‘‘Oh, Sissy! Sissy!” 

Whereupon a tear trembled on her 
lashes and fell, and, clinging to him, 
she hid her face. 

‘‘ Dear,” he said, ‘‘ it isn’t the weather.” 

‘‘Then what is it?” said she in her in- 
nocent voice. 

And when he could only answer, 
‘‘But, Sissy, that is what I want you to 
tell me,” she clasped her slender hands 
about his neck and drew his head down 
to hers. 

‘‘ I think you had better not take any 
notice of me,” she said. ‘‘When I used 
to pull the flowers about in my little gar- 
den, and watered them every day, they 
never seemed to grow. You are all too 
good to me : I think you won’t let me 
get well.” 

Percival smiled at her new theory, and 
promised to wait and see what time would 
do. Nevertheless, he was disappointed. 
If a doctor prescribes a remedy which he 
believes to be infallible, it is dishearten- 
ing, to say the least of it, to find it utterly 
useless. How much more if it happen- 
ed to be his own heart’s blood, his whole 
life and energy and devotion, which he 
had bestowed to heal his patient, and 
found it spent without result! 

One day at luncheon Mr. Thorne an- 
nounced that he thought of making a 
slight alteration in the garden — nothing 
important; just a fresh path, abolishing 
a border and laying down a bit of turf. 
With the help of a water-bottle and two 
decanters for trees, and some plates and 
knives and forks to represent other nat- 
ural objects, he succeeded in making the 
nature of the proposed change clear to 
his sister. 


lOO 


^^FOR FERCIVALr 


“ But you will do away with Horace’s 
border, as we always called it,” she 
objected. 

‘‘The border by the tulip tree? Yes, 
that goes, of course.” 

‘‘Oh, Godfrey, you mustn’t do that. 
Why, I remember him, when he was 
quite a mite, digging away there in his 
little shirt-sleeves ; and how hot he used 
to get over it, to be sure ! I can see him 
now leaning on his little spade while he 
wiped his face, and then setting to work 
again like — ” Mrs. Middleton looked 
vaguely round for a comparison — ‘‘like 
anything! . And growing radishes and 
mustard and cress there ! Oh, God- 
frey, you don’t remember I” 

‘‘ Yes,” said Mr. Thorne, who had been 
mechanically replacing the materials of 
his plan in their original positions — ‘‘yes, 
I do. I can vouch for the substantial ac- 
curacy of your interesting recollections. 
If my memory serves me, the salad was 
brought to table by Horace himself, and 
was gritty.” As he spoke he poured some 
sherry from the decanter which had been 
the tulip tree. ‘‘I want a gravel -path,” 
he said, and sipped his wine. 

‘‘Alter your gravel -path, then, and 
have it by all means,” was the quick 
reply — ‘‘anywhere but through poor 
Horace’s border.” 

Mr. Thorne quietly began to construct 
his plan anew : “Through the pond with 
Sissy’s pet water-lilies, my dear? Or 
shall I cut down the great beech tree ? 
Or demolish the old sun-dial ?” 

‘‘Then do without your gravel -path. 
You have plenty of gravel-paths, with- 
out making any more.” 

‘‘ Quite true. But I have a fancy for 
this one, and as Horace has given up 
digging — What do you say, young 
people ? — ^You, Percival ?” 

‘‘ I am sure that Horace would be the 
first to agree to your path if he were here. 
I am quite certain he would not object. 
At the same time, isn’t it a pity to uproot 
old memories ? They grow slowly, and 
won’t bear transplanting.” 

‘‘Well, you haven’t committed your- 
self, at any rate,” said Mrs. Middleton. 
‘‘Isn’t that a comfort?” 

‘‘A great comfort.” A slight smile 


flickered over his face, and he went on 
with his luncheon. 

‘‘Percival is right,” said Mr. Thorne. 

‘‘ Horace wouldn’t care. In fact, I think 
he would rather not do his sowing — mus- 
tard and cress, wild oats, whatever it may 
be — so immediately under my eyes now- 
a-days. And as to old memories, they 
don’t grow in that border. Nothing 
grows there except verbenas and mi- 
gnonette, which are none of Horace’s 
planting. You may just as well walk 
along my path and think of him in his 
shirt-sleeves, eating cress in the sweat 
of his brow, as look at those flowers 
and do it.” 

‘‘ Much you know about it !” said Aunt 
Harriet in a tone of lofty scorn. ‘‘I’ll 
trouble you for a glass of that madeira, 
Godfrey. You do undei^stand wine.” 

‘‘Thank you!” said the squire, with a 
quick little bow. There was a moment’s 
pause — one of those pauses which may 
mean anything or nothing, and may end 
abruptly in anger or laughter. He broke 
the silence: ‘‘Arbitration is the thing: 
don’t all the papers say so? We will 
amicably refer the matter to Sissy. As 
she has not yet spoken, she shall de- 
cide.” 

‘‘Sissy, indeed!” Aunt Harriet look- 
ed fondly at the silent girl. — ‘‘My dear, 
you are eating nothing ; do let me — ” 

” No bribery ! She must be an impar- 
tial judge.” 

"As if you didn’t know she would say 
what Percival says ! Of course.” 

"I defy her to hold the balance so 
evenly, to blow hot and cold so accu- 
rately,” laughed Mr. Thorne. — “Yes or 
No ? Now, Sissy, must the border be 
kept as an everlasting niemorial of 
Horace and his cress, or may I have 
my gravel -path? — such a nice gravel- 
path, and you shall walk on it. Which 
is it to be?” 

Sissy kept her eyes on her plate, but 
her answer came without a moment’s 
hesitation, low yet distinct: “You may 
have your path.” 

“Oh, Sissy !” Mrs. Middleton exclaim-^ 
ed in a tone of pained reproach. Even ■ 
Percival uttered a little exclamation of 1 
surprise and pushed away his plate. Sis-I 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


loi 


sy’s voice had been constrained, yet so 
resolute. 

Mr. Thorne half smiled, and leaning 
toward her said, almost in a whisper, 
‘‘You and I think much the same about 
Master Horace, I fancy.” 

She looked him full in the face. ‘‘ I’m 
not so sure of that,” she said aloud, and 
suddenly rising she left the room. 

They all exchanged glances, anxious 
to read and not to be read. Mrs. Mid- 
dleton’s face softened. ‘‘I don’t think 
Sissy is very well to-day,” she said. And 
after a few minutes, when they left the 
table, she went in search of her. 

Opening the door of the little sitting- 
room, she walked in without knocking. 

The girl started to her feet, sweeping 
a quantity of papers together: ‘‘What do 
you want? — Oh, Aunt Harriet, I didn’t 
see — I beg your pardon.” As she spoke 
she thrust some of the loose sheets into 
a shabby little writing-case. But the old 
lady had recognized them. They were 
from Horace, the carefully -penned let- 
ters which the schoolboy had sent to the 
little girl who could not ‘‘read writing,” as 
the children say, mixed with the scrawled 
notes of later days. 

‘‘My dear, what are you doing ?” said 
Aunt Harriet, and took her in her arms 
and kissed her. 

‘‘ I thought you would be angry with 
me,” said Sissy. 

‘‘ I was surprised, I think. But you 
were quite right, dear. Godfrey had 
better have his path : he wants it, and 
I was only foolish about it.” 

‘‘ I’ll never walk on it,” said Sissy. 
“Never!” 

“Ah! you didn’t want poor Horry’s 
border done away ? I thought you 
couldn’t.” 

“Yes, I did. Don’t ask me any ques- 
tions, please.” And she disengaged her- 
self and turned away. 

“ But, Sissy, I must ask you one thing. 
You didn’t wish it, I am sure, though 
you said it was to be. Was it because 
you thought it would please Percival ?” 

“Oh no ! no ! It was all my own do- 
ing. Percival wouldn’t have said it, and 
wouldn’t have wished it. I did it all my- 
self.” 


“I can’t understand you,” said poor 
Aunt Harriet. “Tell me what you mean, 
darling. It was your own wish. Then 
why — ” and she looked at the papers 
crushed into the case and scattered on 
the table. 

Sissy tried hard to keep her voice 
level, but it was quavering and in- 
secure. “I think he’ll die,” she said. 
And flying past Aunt Harriet, she took 
refuge in her bedroom, where the old 
lady judged it inexpedient to pursue her. 

About this time Sissy used to ask Per- 
cival questions apropos of nothing that 
he could make out. Once she attacked 
him on the old subject of heroism. 

“You won’t ever expect me to be a 
heroine, will you?” she said. . “You 
know how weak and silly I am. I shall 
never be like Charlotte Corday, Perci- 
val.” '' 

“Heaven forbid that you should!” 
said he. Thus, to Sissy’s relief, he ac- 
cepted the fact that his future wife would 
never have nerve enough to go and stab 
anybody, in a most satisfactory manner. 
He was less of a hero in his own thoughts, 
and shrank from his old dream of a wo- 
man of the heroic type. “No, no!” he 
said. “Those startling women are all 
very well, but not to marry.” 

“ I thought you liked Charlotte Cor- 
day so much ?” 

“ I admire her after a fashion. But, 
dear, you have put it out of my power 
to play the part of Adam Lux.” 

“Who was he?” 

Percival told her of the love which 
burst into flower as the sentence was 
spoken and the death-cart went its way 
through the curses of the mob. Girl- 
like, though she was half repelled by 
Charlotte, she was ready to weep over 
this man who had loved her. She sat 
with her hands in her lap, pondering 
the life which kindled so suddenly to a 
blaze of melancholy passion and came 
to so swift an end, as if one should be 
consumed by a spark from a far-off star. 

“But why do you think so much about 
Charlotte Corday ?” asked Percival. 

“ I don’t ; only I wanted to make sure 
that you quite understand what I am. 
You do, don’t you?” 


102 


**F0R PERCIVALR 


*' My darling, I should hope I did by 
this time.” 

(As if it were a slight thing to under- 
stand a fellow -creature ! But it is a re- 
markable fact that people are equally 
certain that they understand and that 
they are never understood.) 

Another day she found him sitting by 
the fireside with a paper trying to work 
out a chess-problem. She stole her hand 
round his elbow and took away a knight. 
He captured her retreating fingers, re- 
placed his piece, and went on musing 
with her hand in his. Their two glances 
— his intent, hers absent — were fixed 
upon the board. 

At last she sighed. 

“What is it ?” said he, not looking up. 

“ I want to know something.” 

"I want to know many things. For 
instance, why does this man say, ‘ White 
to move, and mate in three moves,’ when 
I can’t manage anything but a stalemate ? 
What business has he to be cleverer than 
I am ?” He stared at the opposing forces 
for a minute. “ Bah ! I can’t see it and, 
pushing back his chair, he raised his eyes : 
“ Let’s hear your puzzle : it may be easier 
to solve.” 

She passed her hand lightly over his 
strong waves of hair: “Percival, when 
people are just dead — ” 

He arched his brows a little. 

“ — Do they know what we are saying 
and thinking about them?” 

“Your problem is far more difficult 
than mine. I can’t tell you. Sissy.” 

“But do tell me what you think,” she 
entreated. 

“ I don’t know what to think. I don’t 
suppose they feel the affairs of our world 
to be half as important as we imagine 
them. I fancy, for instance, that a great 
man just entering on anew existence, with 
all its possibilities, 7nust have something 
better to do than to sit down, cross his legs 
(I speak figuratively) and read the obit- 
uary notices in all the papers.” 

Sissy was not satisfied: “You think 
they wouldn’t care, but could they know 
if they liked ? Because there are some 
things they would care about.” 

“Of course there are.” 

“ Suppose a man had done something 


unkind to his friend, and hidden it,” Sis- 
sy went on. “ If the friend died, would 
he know all about it ?” 

“ How can I tell ?” he mused. “As if 
a dead chief should see in a lightning- 
flash that his trusted right-hand man 
was a traitor? Well, he might. Sissy; 
but he would see it differently, I think 
— more reasons for pardon, perhaps — 
a clearer understanding of motives.” 

“Then perhaps he would not be so 
angry,” said Sissy thoughtfully. 

Percival did not heed, but after a mo- 
ment went on : “ Some people are always 
longing for speech with those gone be- 
fore, and are ready to snatch at any- 
thing which they think assures them 
that the old bonds are as closely knit 
as ever. That is why Spiritualism flour- 
ishes and every medium finds a circle of 
believers pining for news from the spirit- 
world. I hate the idea. Do they think 
our planet rolls on its way surrounded by 
a gray and misty atmosphere — for these 
things are done in the dusk — alive with 
phantoms ? And these ghosts have noth- 
ing more urgent to do than to communi- 
cate in some imperfect fashion with those 
who still enjoy the daylight ? Who would 
not rather think of them as far away, leav- 
ing the old world behind them like a dull 
little blot, doing new work with new ener- 
gy, ready to meet us and to recognize us 
with clearer eyes than of old as we in our 
turn emerge into the better life ? Suppose 
you died and left me, my little Sissy — I 
can’t spare you, dear: you mustn’t — 
would I not rather dream of you as ut- 
terly out of my reach, living perhaps in 
some distant star, than think that you, 
who have talked to me so often with 
your sweet lips and eyes and hands, 
were tiying to explain your feelings 
with the help of a table, two or three 
chairs, a concertina, a bunch of flowers 
and a half-hysterical medium ? The very 
idea is horrible ! As if you should send 
me a kiss by the housemaid !” 

“Good gracious, Percival!” exclaimed 
Mrs. Middleton, opening the door. “What 
are you talking about ?” 

“ Spiritualism, my dear aunt,” was the 
demure reply. 

“ Hm 1 Well, you know, I suppose,” 


*^FOR PRRCIVALr 


103 


and she eyed him doubtfully, “it didn’t 
sound very spiritual.’’ 

“ But that’s its peculiarity,’’ he replied : 
“it never does.’’ 

And, laughing in his sleeve at her be- 
wilderment, he gave no more thought to 
the question whence his discourse arose. 
And Sissy said no more, but extracted 
what comfort she could from the utter- 
ances of her oracle. 

She needed further comfort a day or 
two later. The rector’s wife, who had 
known her ever since she came to Brack- 
enhill, called suddenly upon her one af- 
ternoon. Mrs. Bradley was a good wo- 
man in her way, but it was a remarkably 
unpleasant way. She wished to be good, 
she tried to be good, and the^'esult was 
that she was an awful example of good- 
ness. She would have been as inval- 
uable to a scoffer as is an incorrigible 
drunkard to a temperance lecturer. She 
carried what she called “the Truth ’’ about 
with her as a weapon of offence. The 
text about giving an account of every 
idle word had entered into her very 
soul, and she brought it down like a 
sledge-hammer on every jest or airy bit 
of nonsense. She had always before her 
mind’s eye the vision of a book in which 
all the vain speaking of the world was re- 
corded, to be read out at the last day. She 
I did not consider how much an occasional 
flash of humor would lighten this appall; 
j ing work, nor had it ever struck her that 
I this view of the case might perhaps make 
I prosiness the unpardonable sin. She flew 
' upon poor Sissy at once with an involved 
sentence about her approaching marriage 
I — a new life, new duties, “and, remem- 
I ber, new responsibilities.’’ 

I “Oh, but Percival is going to take 
[ those,’’ said Sissy. “I think he likes 
I them.’’ 

“ He cannot take them,’’ said Mrs. 
j Bradley austerely, grating the words 
[ one against the other as they came out. 

Sissy only replied by a nervous little 
[ laugh, and was reproved for levity. 

[ Then the clergywoman went on to tell 
^ her that she had never taken sufficient 
interest in her fellow-creatures, and that 
I now was the time to make a fresh start 
and deliberately to aim at doing good. 


There was enough truth in the accu- 
sation to make the poor little victim 
wince. Caring for her fellow-creatures 
and doing good meant giving things to 
the poor and talking to them, she sup- 
posed ; and she was well aware that she 
had never done anything of the kind. 
Aunt Harriet had always disposed of 
her boots, indeed of all her old clothes, 
without consulting her; and she had not 
taken to district visiting, Sunday-school 
teaching or any sort of parish work. She 
had an idea that it was wrong to be so 
indifferent, but she was quite sure that 
she could not possibly go calling at cot- 
tages, giving away tickets and reading 
chapters to sick people. If that were 
goodness, she must continue wicked. 

Mrs. Bradley waited for her to speak. 

“Oh, I’ll think about it,’’ said Sissy 
hurriedly, with a terrible certainty in 
her heart that she should think about 
it against her will. “But I sha’n’t be 
able to do anything at present. We are 
not going to have a house just at first: 
we mean to travel.’’ 

“There is an immense field for such 
work on the Continent,’’ was the re- 
morseless reply. 

“Oh no! oh no! I couldn’t, really,’’ 
exclaimed Sissy, alternately hot and cold 
in her terror lest a pledge of some kind 
should be extorted from her — to give a 
tract to the pope perhaps, or publicly to 
denounce Italian idolatry. 

“Among those benighted nations — ’’ 
Mrs. Bradley began. 

“ But I couldn’t talk to them. Perci- 
val is going to do all the talking.’’ 

“ I hope — I can but hope. Sissy — that 
you will not rely too much on Mr. Per- 
cival Thorne.’’ 

“But I have forgotten such a lot of 
my French, you can’t think. And, Mrs. 
Bradley, I never did know any Italian 
except two songs, and they are not Sun- 
day ones. Perhaps when we get back 
^nd are settled — ’’ 

“ Do not deceive yourself,’’ said Mrs. 
Bradley awfully. “ Do not put it off to 
a convenient season. When you are 
settled, you say ; but you will never be 
settled. Here we have no continuing 
city. Oh, remember that !’’ 


104 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


About this time Mrs. Middleton ar- 
rived, and Sissy managed to escape — 
how she hardly knew, except that it was 
not without a parting word. She ran 
down the garden to find Percival. “ Oh 
dear ! how dreadful she is!” thought Sis- 
sy as she fled. ” I do believe I promised 
to wrestle in prayer, or how could it have 
got into my head ? Well, I’m glad it isn’t 
any worse. What would Percival say if 
I went giving those nasty tracts to the 
waiters and people and leaving them 
about the hotels?” 

She found him, and as soon as she 
had a little recovered her breath and 
her composure she told him of the in- 
terview, mimicking most of it cleverly 
enough, in spite of a little unsteady laugh 
which would come at intervals. Perci- 
val, leaning on the fence, laughed too 
in quiet enjoyment of Mrs. Bradley’s 
rasping tones as Sissy reproduced them 
for his benefit. 

‘‘Oh yes, it’s all very fine for you,” 
she said when her story was finished, 
‘‘ standing there smiling, with your hands 
in your pockets, and hearing it all, now 
that it’s over!” 

‘‘But it wasn’t so pleasant for you? 
No, poor child.” 

‘‘Nor for Aunt Harriet now,” said 
Sissy. 

‘‘ Good Heavens ! Aunt Harriet is still 
in her clutches ? What shall we do. Sis- 
sy ? Shall we go and make faces at Mrs. 
Bradley through the window? or raise an 
alarm of fire ? Suggest something.” 

‘‘Then I’ll suggest that I think I hear 
her pony-chaise driving away. Look out 
by those larches : she must pass there.” 

‘‘And so she does!” he exclaimed af- 
ter half a minute of suspense. ■ 

“Percival,” said Sissy, “she’s an awful 
woman.” 

“She is.” 

“ But I’m afraid what she said is part- 
ly true. Don’t you think one ought to 
try and do good to people ? I nevej; 
have. I’m afraid it’s wrong.” 

He recoiled in dismay: “You haven’t 
pledged yourself to do good to me ? Sis- 
sy, speak !” 

“ Don’t be silly : I’m serious.” 

“ Then I think I ought to have been 


told beforehand. Oh, Sissy, so is Mrs. 
Bradley! Be warned in time.” 

“ But I mean it, Percival. It isn’t that 
I want to do any one any good partic- 
ularly,” said Sissy with delicious frank- 
ness, “but I’m afraid I ought. Isn’t it 
very wicked not to care? Don’t you 
think I ought to try ?” 

“No, I don’t,” said Percival. 

“No? Why?” 

“ It is such a confused business at pres- 
ent,” he answered. “Suppose you set a 
hundred people to explain the art of do- 
ing good, you would get a hundred dif- 
ferent ideas as to what was meant. Sup- 
pose I meet a beggar and give him six- 
pence, is it a merit or a crime ? No opin- 
ion on th^ subject is anything like unan- 
imous. So, till they make up their minds 
— unless I am very much inclined the 
other way — I think I may as well keep 
my sixpences : they are handy things. 
Why should I part with them on pur- 
pose to be told that I have demoralized 
somebody ?” 

“But, Percival, I don’t understand. 
Oughtn’t anybody to try to do good?” 

“The people who have a vocation,” 
he replied — “ the people who, blunder as 
they will, prejudiced and ignorant though 
they may be, harm though they may 
sometimes do, yet rise above it all and 
bless the world by sheer force of love. 
Jf you have this sublime calling, well. 
But doing good, as popularly under- 
stood, or misunderstood, is such a hor- 
ribly aggressive proceeding ! I would 
as soon go about giving people shocks, 
on the chance that galvanism might be 
good for some of them. Be kind in small 
things, mercifully just in great: try not 
to do any harm. It isn’t a very exalted 
ideal perhaps. Sissy, but I haven’t got 
any further yet.” 

“Is that really all?” she said. 

“I’m not used to summing up my 
ideas. Suppose I add. Look up and 
wait.” 

“ But, Percival,” she hesitated, “if that 
were all, you wouldn’t think so very much 
about it if any one told a fib.” 

"Whatf" he exclaimed. “What can 
you think of me. Sissy ? Good Heav- 
ens ! Why, truthfulness is an absolute 


^FOR PERCrVALF 


105 


necessity if one would not despise one’s 
self and all mankind. It is the very 
ground we stand on — bare and uncom- 
monly ugly sometimes, I grant you — but 
without it no building is possible. I did 
not say, ‘ Be truthful,’ and therefore I do 
not care for truth ! You might as well 
declare that I did not care for modesty 
because I would not insult a woman by 
telling her to be modest.” 

He spoke rapidly and almost fiercely, 
but paused suddenly as if he had just 
become aware of it. ‘‘I beg your par- 
don, Sissy,” he said in an altered tone. 
“ I can’t be very calm on that subject. 
I’m afraid. There are so many shams 
now-a-days, down to a sham contempt 
of shams.” 

She leant against the fence, gazing at 
him with frightened eyes. One hand 
was firmly pressed to still her wildly- 
beating heart, but when he apologized 
for his vehemence she faintly smiled. 

” I’m afraid that dreadful old woman 
has upset you a little,” he said anxiously. 

She acquiesced, and went away. But 
if the truth which he loved so much could 
have been revealed, perhaps the blame 
would have rested on that dreadful young 
man. 


CHAPTER XX. 

I and my mistress, side by side 
Shall be together, breathe and ride. 

R. Browning. 

I THINK I am a little tired of stories 
in which a marvellously clever villain 
devises an elaborate scheme which I 
I know will be overthrown by a still clev- 
erer detective. I am only irritated by 
the difficulties he surmounts, because I 
am certain he will come to a difficulty 
not to be surmounted. I hate the vir- 
tuous detective, while I am apt to take 
a pitying interest in the villain, and 
sometimes, to my sudden horror, I have 
found myself cordially wishing him suc- 
cess in the evil cause for which he has 
battled so gallantly. I well remember 
the liking I had as a child for Sisera, 
because it was said that the stars in 
their courses fought against him. 

Very likely it is true enough that many 


a scheme is patiently thought out, skil- 
fully carried on, and ruined at the last 
moment by some silly oversight which 
a child might, have avoided. But some- 
times the truth is just the other way. If, 
in spite of all precautions, the gallant 
ship goes down, what frail and unsea- 
worthy vessels have accomplished as- 
tounding voyages in safety ! If the skil- 
ful Alpine climber loses his footing and 
perishes, what benighted travellers or 
children or timid women have groped 
their way in darkness through perils 
they would have feared to face by day ! 

Did you ever notice children launch- 
ing a tiny fleet of walnut -shells with lit- 
tle sails ? The wrecks are many and 
swift, but now and then a boat will glide 
out of reach and out of sight, dancing 
gayly and safely over the troubled wa- 
ters. Sissy had put all Brackenhill into 
a walnut-shell and launched it. Hitherto 
it had sailed miraculously well, but the 
waves were growing high. 

The first indication of the rising tem- 
pest came one day early in May. On 
that day a cloud drifted between herself 
and Percival. 

It was a bright, sunshiny morning, 
more like the May of the poets than 
that of our ordinary experience. Sissy, 
who was in great demand among her 
girl-friends now that her marriage was 
little more than a month distant, had 
promised to spend the day with Laura 
Falconer. Percival was her escort, and 
they had dispensed with the attendance 
of a groom on their nine miles’ ride. 
They had both enjoyed it. Never had 
the country lanes looked more lovely. 
Their thin new veil of green showed the 
form of every bough, soon to be lost in 
the abundant foliage of June. The banks 
were sprinkled with wild hyacinths, the 
hedges with hawthorn-blossom, the blue 
overhead with flakes of whitest cloud. 
The very air seemed full of life and joy, 
kissing Sissy’s cheeks till they looked as 
if two wild roses had opened a month 
before their time, and quickening the 
blood in Percival’s veins, till, blithe and 
careless, he felt himself one with very 
spring itself, and in the gladness of the 
moment quoted — 


io6 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


What if we still ride on, we two, 

With life for ever old yet new. 

Changed not in kind, but in degree, 

The instant made eternity — 

And Heaven just prove that I and she 
Ride, ride together, for ever ride ? 

“I like that,” said Sissy. But after 
a moment she added, "That is a very 
strange idea, though. I never fancied 
there could be any horses in heaven.” 

Percival laughed. “It seems to me,” 
he said, "that women are far more sen- 
timental than men : you excel us in deli- 
cate associations, memories, feelings, but 
I don’t believe you have half the imagi- 
nation. You are so literal : you must 
have everything definite. Women be- 
lieve in tangible white robes, in palms 
and crowns and golden pavements. The 
lover dreams of the joy of an endless, 
buoyant flight through space with his 
lady, and she questions whether she can 
admit any animals fit for riding into her 
conception of heaven !” 

"You’ll certainly frighten the horses 
if you go on so,” said Sissy. " Do you 
suppose you have nearly done?” 

"Quite,” he answered meekly. 

" Then you may tell me the name of 
that poem.” 

"The Last Ride Together.” 

"Oh, Percival !” in a tone of reproach. 
"How could you go quoting such a dread- 
ful thing about us ? Aren’t you ashamed 
of yourself, you bad boy ?” 

" What now ? It won’t make this our 
last ride, will it ? And if it were the last, 
I should like to remember that it was per- 
fect enough to deserve the quotation.” 

(Later he did remember it.) 

Sissy remained unconvinced, and de- 
clined to hear another syllable about the 
poem. And just before they reached their 
destination the poetry of their ride was 
exchanged for a very unpleasant matter 
of fact : her horse was decidedly lame. 

Percival and the Falconers’ groom held 
a consultation over the injury. He went 
straight from the stables to the drawing- 
room, where Sissy was being petted and 
fondled and questioned about her pres- 
ents, the bridesmaids’ dresses, and all the 
arrangements for the wedding-day. 

" You can’t ride Gypsy home,” said he. 

At this there was some consternation. 


Mrs. Falconer declared that Percival 
should go home by himself, and leave 
Sissy with them for the night. When 
that plan was declared impossible, Laura 
meditated for a moment, and then pro- 
posed that as soon as her brother Willie 
came in he should be sent down to the 
rectory. " They have such a nice pony 
there,” she said. " Agnes, the eldest girl, 
often rides it. I am sure they would lend 
it to you. You could send it back to- 
morrow.” 

"Easily, but I don’t know them,” said 
Percival. " How can I ask ?” 

"You are not going to ask them : Willie 
will do that. He doesn’t at all dislike 
going to the rectory. Oh, we will settle 
it all, and take the greatest care of poor 
Gypsy too ; so don’t bother yourself 
about it.” 

Percival declared that she was very 
kind. 

" I only wish we were better off for 
horses,” said Miss Falconer. "But those 
fat old things of ours — Oh, mamma, don’t 
look so indignant : you know they never 
do anything but stand there eating their 
heads off. — Well, then, those magnificent 
animals which drag our old carriage would 
not quite do for riding. And Willie’s 
horse is a brute : you can’t think how 
it kicks !” 

"That wouldn’t do then,” said Sissy. 
"I must go and look at Gypsy, poor 
old fellow !” 

Percival and Laura accompanied her, 
and while she coaxed her favorite he in- 
quired in an eager aside, " How do you 
think she looks?” 

" M uch better, ’ ’ was the answer — ‘ ‘ more 
like herself.” 

" I am afraid it is partly the ride. She 
hasn’t that pretty rose-color always,” he 
said anxiously. " Still, I am sure she’s 
better, and when I get her away — ” 

"You think she will be better still? 
Very likely, for we must remember that 
this is a trying time for her — so many 
leave-takings, such a fuss of prepara- 
tion.” 

As the three strolled round the garden 
Laura smiled a little, noticing Percival’s 
constant thought for Sissy. " What de- 
votion !” she said to herself. She could 


FOR percival: 


107 


not but own that this air ofi^watchful and 
tender courtesy suited him well, and made 
every little attention seem earnest. "They 
are a model pair of lovers," she thought. 
" He looks the character, and he doesn’t 
take the bloom off his courtship with 
nasty slang either. If I were a painter, 
I would make a picture of them here 
and now.” 

Sissy was saying, " I like your three 
old cedars on your sloping lawn so 
much, Laura! When I was a little girl 
I always thought of Lebanon as some- 
thing like your garden." 

"And smelling just like Keswick, no 
doubt," Percival suggested. 

" Lebanon darkens our drawing-room 
window a good deal,” said Miss Fal- 
coner. "And there is no help for it. 
It would be a sin to cut them down, 
and you can’t prune cedars.” 

" I don’t call your drawing-room dark,” 
said Sissy as they went in. 

" Perhaps not at ten minutes to one on 
a sunshiny spring day. But if it were a 
November afternoon, or even if the bank 
of cloud over there came up and hid the 
sun, you would see.” 

" I can imagine it,” said Percival. "Just 
now the light is perfect.” 

The house was partly covered with a 
vine, and the oriel window had a quiv- 
■ ering border of leaves and tendrils. 

' Through the cedars outside came blue 
I gleams of sky like glorious sapphires — 
j gleams which were ten times more deep 
^ and lucid for their sombre setting. The 
3 room, with its polished floor and panel- 
ling, seemed full of golden touches of 
\ sunlight, mixed with the delicate tracery 
I of vine-leaf shadows and the soft, sway- 
ing gloom of the cedars. 

' "These bright spring mornings so often 
cloud over and lose their beauty,” said 
Laura, "and then it is cold, for there is 
no warmth except just in the sunshine.” 

"Don’t you think their uncertainty is 
partly what makes them so beautiful?” 
asked Percival. 

It was two hours later : they had had 
their luncheon, and the three young peo- 
ple were talking in the drawing-room. 
Laura was tatting. Sissy, seated by her 
on a low ottoman, played with her scis- 


sors, her cotton, her crochet-hook, and 
anything else on which she could lay 
her idle little hands. Laura regretted 
aloud that Willie had not come in. " I 
fear it is dull for you, Mr. Thorne,” she 
said. " So stupid of Willie ! He is about 
somewhere with papa, I suppose. If he 
had come in you could have smoked, and 
talked about dogs and horses, and play- 
ed billiards and enj oyed yourselves. And 
now I am afraid you are bored.” 

" If that fear isn’t the reflection of your 
own feelings, let me remind you that I’m 
not a smoker, and assure you that I am 
much happier here,” said Thorne eagerly. 

So he remained, idling over the books 
on the table, looking at the albums and 
talking. They happened to speak of 
some one who was fond of quoting. 

"Heaven defend me from quotations 1” 
exclaimed Percival. "Never quote.” 

" Oh, Percival I And you do it dread- 
fully.” 

"Sissy,” he said in a tone of grave re- 
monstrance, "how am I ever to shine in 
conversation if you make such remarks ? 
I shall be put to silence.” 

"That would be a pity, wouldn’t it ?” 

" I should think it would. Our deeds 
show what we are, our talk shows what 
we would be. Now, as my forte is rather 
preqept than example — ” 

" There’ll be nothing left if Sissy snubs 
you,” said Laura. " Pray don’t be snub- 
bed. We are all attention.” 

"Never quote,” he resumed, as calm- 
ly as if he had not been interrupted at 
all. " I saw the folly of it last week when 
I was away from Brackenhill. It was 
one of those glorious nights, and I was 
looking at the sky — a splendid sky — a 
vast space of white veined with blue, 
and behind it the moon steadily gliding, 
with two or three golden stars. Above 
that was a solemn height, and motion- 
less wreaths of cloud flung across it here 
and there. Do you see it at all ?” 

"Very well indeed,” Miss Falconer 
assured him. 

" I stared at it and said nothing. Nev- 
er call people to look at a sky or a picture, 
or anything that touches you, unless you 
are very sure of their stock of adjectives 
and your own. Else there is no know- 


io8 


*^FOR PERCIVALF 


ing what may happen. She may be 
driven to say, ‘ Isn’t it lovely ?’ And you 
in desperation may reply, ‘Stunning!’ 
or * First-rate I’ And then how can you 
ever respect yourselves or each other 
again ? I pause for a reply.” 

‘‘Don’t pause. We seem to be ad- 
vancing rather slowly.” 

‘‘Presently up came the man I was 
with. ‘ What are you looking at ? Oh, 
I say !’ He had the grace to be silent 
for about five seconds. Then he burst 
out with, ‘ Look at that, now — isn’t that 
Shelley exactly. You remember — you 
must remember.’ I didn’t remember, 
and it turned out that he didn’t either, 
at least not well enough to recall the 
words. Off he rushed — turned up the 
gas — pulled down an armful of books : 
‘ Here’s Shelley — where is that bit, I 
wonder ? Ah, I have it.’ It was in ‘ The 
Cloud :’ no doubt know it 1 — 

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden. 
Whom mortals call the moon, 

Glides glimmering o’er my fleecelike floor. 

But he wasn’t satisfied. ' That’s it,’ he 
said, ‘ but that isn’t all. There is a bit 
somewhere which gives that effect of an 
infinite multitude of little clouds. I don’t 
believe it’s Shelley at all. It’s Words- 
worth — no ! Tennyson — Rossetti — some- 
where in Browning, I think.’ Down came 
six volumes of poems and The Ring and 
the Book. I had a couple to look through, 
so I found two or three of my favorite 
pieces and amused myself very happily. 
At last he lighted on what he wanted, 
and spouted it triumphantly: 

A multitude 
Of handbreadth cloudlets — 

‘ That’s it, you know,’ he said. I agreed 
that that was it, and he went on — 

— One vast rack 
Of ripples infinite and — 

‘Oh! — why it’s black!' He was a lit- 
tle disconcerted. ‘ That’s your idea of 
an appropriate quotation, is it ?’ said I. 
'And our sky is like luminous snow. 
Look there!’ We both looked, and 
burst out laughing. It had grown gray 
while we were fitting it with a descrip- 
tion !” 

Percival had finished his story Avithout 


any change of tone, but toward the end 
his eyes were wandering out of the win- 
dow. It seemed to him that it certain- 
ly was one of the Brackenhill carriages 
turning in at the gate, yet he feared to 
startle Sissy by the announcement till 
he should be perfectly sure. What could 
induce them to send the brougham ? 
Some startling event, for it undoubtedly 
was the brougham. 

‘‘ Don’t I hear something driving in ?” 
asked Laura. 

‘‘Yes. A visitor you will be surprised 
to see — as I am,” he exclaimed. There 
was an impatient pull at the bell. — ‘‘ Sis- 
sy, guess. But no, there is no time. 
Dear, it is the carriage from Bracken- 
hill, and Horace is getting out.” 

Sissy made no reply, but sat, helpless 
as a scared child, gazing at the door. 
It was Miss Falconer who exclaimed, 
"Horace ! Are you sure that it is really 
Mr. Horace Thorne ?” and rushed to the 
window. 

(There had been a little flirtation in 
old days, and Laura, though not serious- 
ly wounded, had a soft place still in her 
heart for him, and was apt to think of 
him by his Christian name.) 

‘‘ Quite sure,” said Percival. — ‘‘ Sissy, 
listen to me. He is changed a good 
deal : be prepared — try not to look 
shocked. Dear, are you listening?” 

“Yes.” She lifted her eyes to him. 
They were full of terror and despair. 

‘‘ What is the matter ? Sissy, it is not 
so bad as that.” He stopped and look- 
ed toward the opening door. 

There was a little pause before Horace 
followed the servant who stood ready to 
announce him. Sissy got up and took 
hold of the back of the chair from which 
Laura had risen. She tried hard to be 
very calm. She fixed her eyes on a 
brilliant spot of red in the rug: it al- 
most seemed to rise and burn beneath 
her gaze, but she was afraid to look 
away. 

‘‘Mr. Horace Thorne.” 

And Horace himself advanced, look- 
ing terribly worn and ill, but with a bright 
color on his cheeks and a glance, half 
defiant, half anxious, which seemed to 
say, ‘‘What do you think of me ? I am 


^^FOR PERCIVAL: 


extremely well, and don’t care what you 
think.” 

“Didn’t expect to see me, did you?” 
he said, with a nervous laugh as he 
greeted Laura, who happened to stand 
nearest. 

“That doesn’t make us the less glad,” 
she answered brightly. 

He was hurriedly shaking hands with 
Percival. 

“ Glad to see you back again, old fel- 
low !” said the latter. 

But Horace had turned to Sissy with 
eager eyes : “ My little Sissy ! Why, what 
an age it is since I’ve seen you !” He 
had her cold little fingers in his clasp. 
“And what a lazy little woman, never 
to write !” 

She looked up quickly as he stooped 
to kiss her, yet, though she looked up, 
her eyes avoided his, and she turned a 
little so that he kissed her cheek, and 
their lips did not meet. “Oh, I can’t 
write letters,” she said, “ and auntie 
wrote, and Percival.” 

Horace drew back a little, and re- 
membered what his mother had said : 
“No doubt Sissy will be the same to you 
if your cousin will let her." He let her 
I hand fall. 

“How did you come ?” said Percival. 
1 “Yes, you forget we are all dying of 
' curiosity,” Miss Falconer chimed in. 

: “How far have you travelled to-day? 
I And are you quite worn out ? What 
' sort of passage did you have ?” 

“One question at a time. How far 
have I travelled to-day ? Not very far : 
this morning from town — this afternoon 
from Brackenhill.” 

‘But where was Aunt Harriet?” said 
Percival. “ She could not have let you 
desert her so quickly, I know.” 

“ She had taken the pony chaise, and 
left word for you that she should be 
home to dinner. So I asked the gov- 
ernor how he was, and he said, ‘ Quite 
well.’ Then the governor asked me how 
I was, and I said, ‘ Quite well.’ And af- 
ter a little more conversation — about up 
to that sample — I said I thought I’d look 
you up.” 

“ How nice of you !” exclaimed Laura. 
“ But aren’t you very tired ?” 


109 

“ Tired ? No : what should make me 
tired ? Driving nine miles in the brough- 
am ? — My good fellow,” turning to Per- 
cival, “what are you shoving that easy- 
chair at me for ? Keep it for yourself.” 

“May as well sit as stand,” was the 
calm reply. 

“ Sit, then — put your feet up, and wel- 
come — but let other people do as they 
like. I don’t believe there was much 
the matter with me last autumn : at 
any rate. I’m all right now.” 

“ That’s well,” said Percival. “ When 
did you cross?” 

“The night before last. We had a 
good passage.” 

Sissy had moved into the oriel window, 
and now spoke in a tremulous voice : “Do 
you ever cough now, Horace ?” 

“I don’t know. Yes, now and then a 
little. Habit, you know : one doesn’t get 
out of the way of a thing all at once. 
Mere trick, I believe : I must break my- 
self of it.” 

“That’s good news,” said Percival. 

Horace made his boast, as before, with 
the glance which wandered from face to 
face, hungry for confirmation of his as- 
sertion, yet laughing at the idea that 
there could be two opinions about such 
a self-evident fact. And all the time he 
looked a ghastly shadow of the bright 
Horace of a year before. 

He had turned to Sissy as she spoke, 
and now stepped toward her. "You 
don’t look very well,” he said, com- 
miserating her from the height of his 
own complete recovery. “What is the 
matter with you?” 

She hung her head: “I don’t know. 
I think it’s the weather.” 

“The weather?” smiled Horace, as 
who should call attention to the mad 
fancies of invalids. “ Wha*t is amiss with 
the weather, pray ? Tolerable for foggy 
old England, isn’t it?” 

Sissy murmured some reply. Percival. 
who leant against the chimney-piece, 
looked up as she spoke, and the mo- 
mentary glance photographed a little 
picture for ever on his memory. The 
cloud of which Laura had spoken had 
rolled upward, blotting the azure of the 
sky, and the great cedars were dark as 


no 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


thunderstorms against the gray. In the 
melancholy oriel stood Horace and Sis- 
sy, if indeed they were Horace and Sissy, 


and not the ghosts of their beautiful sun- 
shiny selves, with the ghost of the sun- 
shiny morning in the background. They 



looked at each other with strange eyes. 
What change had come over them dur- 
ing the last year? Horace had a con- 


strained and watchful air, and Sissy 
shrank sadly from his look and touch. 
And these were the two who had been 



^^FOR PERCIVALV 


III 


like brother and sister together in glad 
old days at Brackenhill ! 

“Listen!” said Laura: “I hear papa 
and Willie.” 

And when the two came in, soon fol- 
lowed by Mrs. Falconer, there were such 
surprised exclamations, such questioning 
and such wonder on the part of the new- 
comers, such quick assertions of perfect 
health on Horace’s part, that it did not 
signify whether Sissy talked or not. 

Presently she stole across the room 
to Percival where he stood. “ Have you 
spoken to William Falconer yet .?” she 
asked in an eager whisper. 

“Spoken to Falconer?” 

“About the pony I am to ride — the 
pony from the rectory’ ? Laura said he 
would go for it.” 

“But, my dear child, we don’t want 
the pony now. What are you thinking 
of? Of course you will drive home in 
the brougham with Horace.” 

“No, no, I don’t want to drive. I 
would rather ride with you — much rath- 
er, Percival.” There were timid caresses 
in her voice, and almost tears. 

“And I should like to ride with you,” 
said he. “ But we can’t ask for the pony 
for a mere whim, though we might have 
done so when we were really in a diffi- 
culty.” 

“This morning,” she pouted, hanging 
her pretty head, “ you wanted our ride to 
go on for ever and ever, you told me. 
And now — ” 

“Now the sun has gone in, and the 
wind has got up, and the sky is gray, 
and Gypsy is lame, and, even if we had 
the pony, I dare say it would be a stupid 
little beast. No, no. Sissy, it is just as well 
as it is : it would not be perfect like this 
morning. We’ll ride to-morrow, dear: 
you must drive home this afternoon. 
Why, what would Horace think?” 

Percival considered the discussion 
closed, and was opening his lips to say 
something else when Sissy startled him : 
“I don’t want to drive home with Horace.” 

He paused an instant, looking at her. 
“What do you mean ?” he said gravely, 
but very gently. “He looks ill, poor fel- 
low, but — ” 

“Oh, it isn’t that,” she exclaimed. 


“ Then what is it ? Tell me quickly 
what you mean. Sissy.” 

“Nothing. Only I don’t want to drive 
home with him. Oh, Percival, please 
don’t ask me.” 

He looked perplexed, but after a mo- 
ment he replied, “ It isn’t a question of 
asking: it seems to me you must.” 

“No, I needn’t,” said Sissy. “If you 
won’t get me the pony I can stay here 
for the night. Laura will keep me : 
she said she would.” 

“ Impossible !” Percival was growing 
stern. “ Why, you told them you couldn’t 
do it. It is out of the question.” 

Sissy stood with lips compressed, evi- 
dently unconvinced. 

“ Why don’t you like driving home ? 
What has Horace done ?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ That is absurd,” said Percival. “There 
must be some cause — ” 

“No, no! He hasn’t done anything. 
Oh, Percival, be good to me !” 

“My dear child, be reasonable.” 

“Very well, then: I will drive home, 
since you say I must. But you must 
drive too.” 

Percival spoke very gently, because 
he had determined that he would always 
speak gently to Sissy, and his smile was 
equally intentional : “You fly from one 
impossibility to another, dear. What is 
to become of the roan ?” 

“Let him stay here.” 

“ You don’t think what you are saying. 
They have promised to keep poor Gypsy, 
who can’t go back to-day. I can’t pos- 
sibly ask them to keep the roan, who 
can.” 

Sissy was distressed, but still obstinate. 

“Say that there is a meaning in this 
which you will explain to me when we 
reach Brackenhill,” said Percival, “and 
of course something shall be done.” 

“ No, no ! Oh, why is Gypsy lame ?” 

“What’s all the discussion about?” 
Mr. Falconer inquired. “ Can’t you get 
your own way. Miss Sissy ? you seem 
trying very hard for it.” 

She looked up with a pretty, tearful ^ 
brightness. “ Oh, don’t you think I 
ought to have it?” she exclaimed. 
“Please say you do.” 


II2 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


“Of course you ought. Now is your 
time. Have your own way till you prom- 
ise to honor and obey : that’s only fair. 
— Wasn’t that the bargain we made, my 
dear, in our old courting - days, before 
these young people were thought of?’’ 

“Something like it,’’ said his wife. 

“ It worked well, no doubt,’’ said Per- 
cival, who stood erect and still, as if he 
were made of bronze. 

“Very well,’’ smiled Mrs. Falconer. 

“ Extremely well,’’ said her husband. 

“ Only, it was rather a long engagement, 
and — quite accidentally, of course — Lucy 
got so used to having her own way that 
she has never seemed able to get out 
of it. Otherwise, it worked remarkably 
well.’’ 

“ I think we’ll try it,’’ said Sissy. 

“ It will be for Percival’s good, too,’’ 
said Mr. Falconer. “ Don’t they say a 
man isn’t fit to command till he has 
learned to obey ?’’ 

While he spoke she contrived to whis- 
per, "IfyoM love me, Percival!’’ 

“So be it,’’ said young Thorne aloud. 
— “Mr. Falconer, I am so struck with 
your exarnple that I am going to follow 
it. Sissy is very anxious that we should 
all be together to-day : she must drive 
home with Horace, and she can’t bear 
the thought of my lonely ride.’’ 

“Leave your horse here,’’ said Mr. 
Falconer. 

“Exactly what I was going to ask 
your permission to do.’’ 

The matter was thus promptly settled, 
yet Sissy was hardly content. Percival 
smiled and talked, but there was yet 
a threatening gravity about his eyes. 

The brougham came to the door, and 
the three drove off. The pleasure of 
being together had been secured with 
some difficulty, yet they scarcely seem-, 
ed to appreciate each other’s society. 
Horace leaned back, evidently tired, 
though he did his best to conceal the 
fact. Sissy cast timid glajjjces, pleading 
for pardon, at Percival, who sat opposite 
with folded arms, shut lips and a line be- 
tween his eyes. The world was very fair 
in its joy of returning spring, though the 
sky hung gray above it. But the beauty 
of green hedgerows and orchards pink 


and white was lost on these three young 
people. Their hearts and brows were 
burdened so heavily that it was almost a 
wonder that the sleek chestnuts should 
whirl them so gayly along the road to 
Brackenhill. Something might have 
been done to lighten the load, no doubt, 
had the trio been able to make up their 
minds. Horace need not have uttered 
a word: he might have pulled a letter 
from his pocket which his hand instinct- 
ively sought, and he would have fronted 
the world once more with never a secret 
to hide. Sissy need only have opened 
her lips to let out a confused and hurried 
avowal, which sometimes seemed as if it 
must force its way in spite of her. But 
Percival, if he had a share of his own in 
this oppression, must have opened his 
heart to seek it, and might have been 
startled had a phantom taken shape 
and come forth from its inmost recesses 
to look him in the face. 

“ Here we are,’’ said Horace with a 
yawn. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

RECONCILIATION. 

Aunt Middleton was on the steps, 
quivering from head to foot with im- 
patient joy. These few moments of ex- 
pectation, which seemed so intolerably 
long, were nevertheless the happiest 
that her boy’s return could give her, 
for the sight of his face was the sight 
of a death-warrant. It was impossible 
to prepare her for the shock, and Hor- 
ace saw her suddenly blanched cheeks, 
and met her with the more defiance. 

It seemed as if the happy brightness 
of the morning could not belong to the 
day which closed so drearily. Every- 
body longed to hasten the lagging hours. 
Horace’s talk was interrupted by dread- 
ful fits of coughing, during which they 
all tried to look different ways and to 
seem unconscious of the terrible pause. 
Aunt Harriet pushed her chair fkrther 
back into the shadow, and sat over her 
knitting, dropping stitches and furtive 
tears. Sissy shrank from every one, as 
if she were some poor little wounded 


*'FOR PERCIVALR 


creature whom the lightest touch would 
torture. It was not wonderful, perhaps, 
that she feared Percival’s displeasure. 
Many people when they are put out 
show the depth of their feelings with 
tolerable accuracy. But Percival’s dark- 
ly-expressive face intensified the mean- 
ing it had to convey. When he was put 
out he looked like a thundercloud. Nor 
did he weaken the effect of his expres- 
sion by speech, and his politeness was 
terrible. 

But Horace was not displeased with 
her, and when he coughed her eyes, as 
she turned them away, were full of sor- 
row. When he sat by the fireside she si- 
lently pushed him a footstool, and crept 
behind his chair to draw a curtain closer 
lest there should be a draught. She re- 
membered every Taney he had about his 
tea. Yet she hardly spoke to him, nor 
did she touch him as she gave him his 
cup. 

Mr. Thorne stood on the hearth-rug 
and surveyed the party. He was more 
I grieved and anxious about his grandson 
than he would have owned even to him- 
self. 

, “You must stay with us, Horace,” he 
said abruptly. “ That small bag wasn’t 
all your luggage?” 

(There was an unintentional sting in 
i the invitation. He did not speak as if 
Horace had come home.') 
j “It is, though. Thank you,” said the 
j young man, rather stiffly, “ I must be off 
I to-morrow. I came over with my moth- 
er, and I don’t care to leave her quite 
alone.” 

I “Where is she ?” 

“ We shall stay in town for a few weeks, 
I think.” 

“ But of course you will come down to 
the wedding?” said Percival. “You are 
to be best man, you know.” 

“ The wedding ! pooh ! That’s five 
weeks hence — time for Sissy to change 
her mind before then,” said the squire. 
— “ Look here, Horace, I must have my 
little girl to myself for a few days be- 
fore I lose her. I’ll tell you what you 
shall do. Write and ask your mother 
to come at once and stay for a fortnight. 
No, your Aunt Harriet will write.” 

8 


Mrs. Middleton was thunderstruck. 
She got up instantly, and went to the 
writing-table like one in a dream. For 
the next half hour she retired altogether 
from public life, and consumed many 
sheets of note-paper in fruitless endeav- 
ors to reconcile the terms of hospitality 
with those of truthfulness. Dr. Gum- 
ming was never so. sure of the approach- 
ing end of all things as she was while 
she wrote the invitation. Godfrey ask 
her to Brackenhill ! What could come 
next but doomsday ? 

Sissy, when she bade Percival good- 
night in the hall, said, “ Please, don’t be 
angry any longer.” 

“Am I angTy ?” he asked. “Well, 
perhaps I am. I am vexed and troubled. 
Why do you hide things from me, dear ? 
Why can’t you trust me ? It is like the 
beginning of a shadow. What is that 
you sing sometimes ?” And leaning 
against the wall he hummed softly. 

The little rift within the lover’s lute 
Which by and by shall make — 

She sprang to him, caught his hands, 
and held them : “ Don’t sing that ! 

Don’t sing that ! Oh, Percival ! Per- 
cival !” 

“ No,” he said, “it won’t be that, I hope 
and think. It won’t be that, because I 
trust you. It is some foolish little secret, 
or it is some one else’s secret. Not Hor- 
ace’s, is it ?” he exclaimed suddenly 
“He has no right to burden — ” 

“Oh no ! no !” 

“Why not tell me?” said Percival. 
“If it is your own, it is some childish 
folly. I won’t be stern. Do I look stern. 
Sissy? I’m not: you almost break my 
heart when you look at me with those 
great, frightened eyes of yours. I can’t 
be very stern. I’m sure. And I won’t 
laugh — there! People must do foolish 
things sometimes, or life wouldn’t be en- 
durable. 1 dare say you are foolish now 
and then : I hope so, for I know / am. 
What does it matter when I can trust 
my little wife? For you will never do 
anything of which I shall be ashamed. 
How can you ever find it in your heart 
to be afraid of me. Sissy — to stab me so? 
And why should you be afraid ? I’m not 


»FOR PERCIVALF 


II4 

bad, but I wish my soul were as sweet 
and clear as yours. Tell me, dear, and 
if I do smile, it will be to think that such 
a trouble could weigh so heavily.” 

Till he paused she had not looked up 
at him. Then she did: ‘‘Oh, Percival, 
you are good ! But I have nothing to tell 
you, really.” 

He shook his head : ‘‘ Is that all the 
jnswer I am to have ?” 

“No,” she said, ‘‘not all.” And she 
suddenly threw her arms about his neck 


and drew his dark face down and kissed 
him. No words could have moved him 
as did the mute appeal of those little 
clinging hands and kissing lips. Dis- 
pleasure vanished like a cloud. She 
laughed, and shut his eyes with sweet 
caresses and kissed his mouth to silence. 
And an old wideawake of the squire’s, 
set jauntily askew on a hat -peg just 
above them, looked down and seemed 
to bless the baseless reconciliation. 



percival:' 


115 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A THORN IN THE FLESH. 

WOULD cheer- 
fully,” said Mrs. 
Middleton to Per- 
cival a few days 
later, “very cheer- 
fully, give you 
five pounds — 
now, this minute 
— if you could tell 
me how to say 
something politely 
to Mrs. James.” 

“ Some one par- 
ticular thing?” the 
young man re- 
plied from the 
depths of his easy- 
chair. “ Let me 
hear what it is. 
Never earned five pounds in my life : it 
would be a new sensation. — I’ll buy you 
something with it, Sissy — shall I? Eh? 
— Oh, she’s gone !” 

“ It isn’t earned yet,” said Aunt Har- 
^ riet dryly, “and I don’t think it will be 
; easy.” 

“You excite my curiosity. What is 
j it?” 

I “Well! next time Mrs. James and I 
; have a talk how am I to say — quite civ- 
i illy and in a ladylike way — ‘ That is the 
biggest fib I have heard since the one 
) you told at breakfast ’ ? Now, Percival !” 
j “Adieu, all hopes of five pounds !” said 
Percival. “You must say it right out, or 
she wouldn’t see it.” 

“And then it could hardly be civil.” 

“What is the latest novelty, by the 
way?” he asked after a pause. 

“Oh, I don’t know. That the Ben- 
hams are related to Sir Walter Court- 
enay of Langley Priors : I don’t think 
there has been one since that. I like 
her audacity. What will the woman 
say next?” 

“Can’t tell,” said Percival: “her im- 
agination far outsoars mine.” 


“Well. I never saw much of her be- 
fore, but I don’t think she used to be as 
bad as this,” fumed Aunt Harriet. “ If 
only she wouldn’t kiss me ! And the 
fuss she makes with Godfrey — calling 
him ‘ papa 1’ too, when she wants to be 
so lively and insinuating. It’s sicken- 
ing ! She makes me think of those 
nasty boa creatures, licking you all over 
before they gulp you down 1 I can’t be- 
lieve she’s Horace’s mother — I really 
can’t. I don’t feel as if she could be.” 

“ It does seem absurd,” he replied. 
“ Do you think he was changed at 
nurse ? I don’t see how it could be 
managed otherwise,” he mused, frown- 
ing in the effort to construct a theory. 
“ I doubt if Mrs. James could be changed 
in any way ; and even with Horace there 
are difficulties — ” 

The distant sound of a harsh, high 
voice made Mrs. Middleton leap to her 
feet : “ Mercy on us I here she comes ! 
I thought she was safe in her room for 
an hour at least.” 

“ I think,” said Percival in his very 
softest tone, “that that is the parrot 
screeching in the library.” 

“Oh, of course!” Aunt Harriet sank 
back relieved, only to exclaim the next 
moment, “ Percival, the parrot doesn’t 
wear a silk dress.” 

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “it is Mrs. 
James !” and was out of the window and 
on the terrace in a moment. 

She came in with a rustling sweep of 
drapery and what was a big, demonstra- 
tive woman’s notion of a gliding walk. 

“Oh, here is Aunt Harriet!” she e.x- 
claimed. “ I asked Sissy where you were, 
just now, and she told me she thought 
you were here.” 

“I am here,” said Mrs. Middleton. 
(Brevity is the soul of wit, they say, so 
it may be presumed this speech was 
witty. At any rate, it tripped the con- 
versation up as a witty remark will oc- 
casionally do.) 

• There was a little pause before Mrs. 



FOR PERCIVAL: 


a 


1 16 

James spoke again: "Dear Aunt Har- 
riet, busy as ever, knitting away.” She 
sat down on the sofa, and it creaked a 
little : her stiff black ^Ik, with its violet 
satin trimming, swept over Mrs. Middle- 
ton’s lap. The little, delicately-apparel- 
led old lady was engulfed and fondled. 

Mrs. James Thorne was fifty-four. She 
called herself forty -three, and always 
spoke as if she had been very young 
indeed at the time of her marriage, six- 
and-twenty years before: ‘‘A mere chit 
— just out of the schoolroom. I ought 
to have been in it a good deal longer. 
I’m afraid, so learned as people are now- 
a-days. But poor dear papa couldn’t say 
‘ No ’ when his little girl coaxed him to 
let her have a pony. And the hounds met 
close by, you know, and then — why then, 

The old, old story was told again, 

as that dear, sweet — what’s her name ? 
Floribel ? — Claribel says. V ery naughty, 
no doubt, but young people will be young 
people, won’t they?” 

She smilingly alluded to herself in this 
style before the squire on one occasion. 
“Ah, yes!” he said without a quiver of 
voice or muscle, though he could per- 
fectly recall the big young woman of 
eight-and-twenty as he spoke. ” Good- 
ish-sized pony, wasn’t it ? / remember 

it.” 

She thought it was. 

‘‘Yes, yes,” he repeated, apparently 
meditating, ‘‘nice pony.” He seemed to 
call the points of the imaginary animal 
to remembrance. ‘‘Didn’t your father 
get him from Jack Lawson ?” he asked 
suddenly : ‘‘you remember Jack Law- 
son ?” 

(Rumor had linked Mr. Lawson’s 
name with Miss Benham’s from one 
end of the county to the other while 
James Thorne was still a white -faced 
little schoolboy.) 

‘‘Oh yes," she said, looking him full 
in the face : *‘ I recollect him, of course. 
Little black man, wasn’t he ?” This was 
very creditable — Mr. Jack Lawson hav- 
ing been big and sandy-haired. 

Approval dawned in the squire’s eyes. 
‘‘ Exactly !” he said, and added thought- 
fully, ‘‘a good memory is one of the 


greatest of blessings when one is ad- 
vancing in years.” 

She was rather perplexed. 

Mrs. James was not a bad-looking wo- 
man. From her girlhood onward she 
had always been somewhat too high- 
colored and strongly built for beauty, 
but her features were regular and her 
figure good. She might have made a 
grand Amazon, but her affectation of 
juvenility, her sentimental reminiscences 
and insinuating smiles, were hideously at 
variance with her masculine appearance. 
‘‘Hunting Harry,” as Miss Harriet Ben- 
ham had been called of old, hunted now 
with playful glances and little sighing al- 
lusions to her youth, as if she missed it 
like a friend she had just lost. 

Percival hated her, and behaved to her 
with stately courtesy. ‘‘ She has such a 
fearful voice,” he said one day to Sissy. 

‘‘It isn’t pleasant,” said Sissy, stooping 
over him as he sat and putting some vio- 
lets in his coat. ‘‘Yours is.” 

‘‘ I should think hers wasn't pleasant. 
If they were going to hang me, and she 
had to pronounce sentence — which she 
would do with great pleasure — I think I 
should ask to be executed at once, and 
let her rasp it out at her leisure when I 
was beyond its reach.” 

‘‘You always speak so softly and lazily 
when she is near,” said Sissy. ‘‘ I think 
you aggravate her.” 

‘‘Do you really?” Percival was so 
pleased that he sat up. ‘‘ Dear me I If 
I got some of Aunt Harriet’s voice-ju- 
jubes, and sucked one between every 
sentence, do you think it might make 
me more mellifluous still?” 

‘‘Well, it would make you slower,” 
said Sissy : ‘‘ I think you would never 
leave off talking to her then.” 

‘‘There’s something in that,” said Per- 
cival, sinking back. ‘‘ Better leave well 
alone, perhaps.” 

‘‘After all, her voice isn’t her fault,” 
Sissy suggested. 

‘‘ It’s one of them. She could hold her 
tongue.” 

‘‘ Isn’t that rather hard ? Don’t be an 
unkind boy.” 

‘‘It is hard,” he allowed. ‘‘People 
I shouldn’t be judged by voices or noses 


SHALL WE GO TO LUNCHEON ?” — Page II9, 


FOR PERCIVALr 


I17 


or complexions, or such things, of course. I like to be unjust to a woman because 
Take hair, for instance. I should not I her hair was pale drab, or because it 



turned gray at twenty-five, or because it 
was such a minute wisp that one small 
hair-pin would restrain the whole. I 


don’t think our colored brothers happy 
in their style of hair, but I don’t blame 
them for it. But I am not superior to all 



ii8 


^^FOR PERCIVALr 


piejudices: I admit it frankly, though 
with sorrow. I object strongly to any 
one in whose hair I detect a glowing 
shade of purple. Just get Mrs. James 
between you and the light — ” 

But we have left Mrs. Thorne seated 
on the sofa by Aunt Harriet. “You 
don’t mind my calling you Aunt Har- 
riet, do you?” she says sweetly. “Per- 
haps I ought to say Mrs. Middleton, but 
didn’t my poor dear James always call 
you Aunt Harriet ? And my own name, 
too ! I always feel so fond of my name- 
sakes, as if they belonged to me, some- 
how. Don’t you?’’ 

“1 never had much to do with any 
namesakes of mine, except one maid,’’ 
says the old lady reflectively ; “ and she 
had such dreadful warts on her hands ! 
But I was able to give her the best of 
characters, thank Goodness !’’ 

“ How droll you are !’’ Mrs. James re- 
plies, with her head on one side. She 
holds a small portrait a long way off, 
and lifts a gold-rimmed glass to exam- 
ine it. 

“ What have you got there ?’’ Aunt 
Harriet inquires. 

Mrs. James sighs, and turns the pic- 
ture a little toward her companion, who 
puts on her spectacles and peers curious- 
ly at it. It is a painting on ivory of Mau- 
rice Thorne, the squire’s favorite son, who 
was drowned so many years ago. 

“Good gracious ! Maurice’s miniature 
out of the library ! — My dear Mrs. James, 
excuse me, but Godfrey never allows that 
to be touched.’’ 

“Oh. he wouldn’t mind My having it 
for a few moments, just to recall old days. 
He would understand My feelings, I am 
sure. Don’t be afraid, dear Aunt Har- 
riet : if he should come in I will take all 
the blame. I will say, ‘ The fault is mine, 
papa, Entirely Mine — you’ll forgive me, 
won’t you ?’ I assure you, Aunt Harriet, 
he sha’n’t scold you : I will tell him you 
warned me, but that I was so wilful, and 
felt so sure he would understand my in- 
terest in poor dear Maurice.’’ 

“Godfrey will not scold me : I am not 
afraid," says the oW lady, with quivering 
emphasis. She is almost boiling over with 
suppressed indignation at the idea of Mrs. 


James defending her from her brother. 
Her knitting progresses in a jerky man- 
ner, and she has not discovered that 
she has dropped a stitch in the last row. 
“It would be odd if Godfrey and I didn’t 
understand each other. And you must 
pardon me, but I don’t quite see your 
particular interest in Maurice.’’ 

“ In poor dear Maurice ?’’ Mrs. James 
repeats, as if Mrs. Middleton had forgot- 
ten the proper adjectives for any one who 
happened to be dead, and she would del- 
icately suggest them. “ You don’t see my 
interest in him? How strange! I always 
thought it so true what some one says, 
somewhere, you know, that a woman 
never feels quite the same toward a man 
who . . . even if she . . . Oh, I can’t 
remember exactly how it goes, but it 
isn’t out of my own head. I saw it some- 
where, and I said ‘ How very true !’ One 
must feel a little differently toward him, 
I think, though one cannot feel quite as 
he would wish.’’ 

Mrs. Middleton stares blankly at her 
visitor. Astonishment and disgust have 
risen to such a height within her that, 
unable to find fitting expression in her 
face, they find none at all. What does 
this woman mean ? That Maurice — 
Maurice — Oh, it is too much ! (“ My 

dear,’’ she said afterward, “if I had 
spoken I must have screamed at her!’’) 

Mrs. James, still with the portrait in 
her hand, sighs, half smiles and puts up 
her eyeglass for another survey. “So 
like !’’ she murmurs. Handsome Mau- 
rice, trim and neat in the fashion of 
thirty years ago, looks out of the min- 
iature frame with wide clear eyes and 
proudly-curved mouth. One might fan- 
cy an expression of scornful appeal on 
the delicately -painted features, as if he 
saw the coarsely-complexioned, middle- 
aged face leaning over him, and ex- 
claimed, “Mate 7ne with her!" She 
turns the bright young fellow a little 
more to the light, and dusts him pen- 
sively with her lace-edged handkerchief. 

“Curious!’’ she says. “Of course 
poor dear Maurice was handsomer — 
there could be no doubt of that.’’ 

“Handsomer than whom?’’ Aunt 
Harriet is growing desperate. 


^^FOR percival:' 


*' Handsomer than poor dear James. 
I’ve got him in a brooch. It must have 
been done when he was about the same 
age, I should think.” 

"I dare say I’m a stupid old woman,” 
says Aunt Harriet, who has compressed 
a multitude of mistakes into a row or 
two of her work, and is going fiercely 
on, ‘‘but I don’t quite see what was cu- 
rious. One of them was pretty sure to 
be handsomer than the other, unless 
they were twins and you couldn’t tell 
which was which.” 

‘‘ Dear Aunt Harriet ! how practical she 
is!” Mrs. James murmurs in a fondly 
patronizing voice. ‘‘No, I was thinking 
how curious it is that 

Love will still be lord of all, 

as they say. Poor dear Maurice ! hand- 
somer, older (and that is always a charm 
when one is young, isn’t it?), and 
the heir too. And yet it was poor dear 
James who was to be my fate!” 

‘‘Ah, I suppose it was obliged to be 
James,” says Mrs. Middleton vaguely. 
Her companion darts a keen glance at 
her, as if suspecting a hidden sarcasm, 
but the old lady is examining her knit- 
ting with newly -aroused curiosity, and 
^seems startled and innocent. Mrs. 
James covers half Maurice’s face with 
her hand and gazes at the forehead, 
partly shaded with silky dark hair. 

‘‘ Doesn’t it remind you a little of our 
dear Sissy ?” she says. 

‘‘ Sissy ! Why should it be like Sissy ? 
Why, there wasn’t a drop of the same 
blood in their veins!” 

‘‘ It reminds me of her,” Mrs. James 
persists. ‘‘Aunt Harriet, do you know 
I think the dear child is throwing her- 
self away ? Surely she might have done 
much better.” 

‘‘ It’s rather late now,” says Aunt Har- 
riet. 

‘‘ With her beauty and her money, and 
he with no fortune, no expectations, and 
nothing to look at. Do you recollect 
Sarah Percival, ages ago, in her queer 
bonnets, singing out of a great hymn- 
book in the rectory pew ? What poor 
Alfred could see in her I never could 
imagine. Such a tawny, unformed, mu- 


119 

latto sort of a girl! And Percival is a 
Percival, there’s no doubt of that. Such 
a complexion, and that unfortunate curl- 
iness ! It makes one think there must be 
some negro blood somewhere.” 

Percival, with his clear olive skin, his 
firmly -set lips, his grave eyes and the 
smooth curves of hair about his fore- 
head, — Percival like a negro ! Percival, 
who carried himself so proudly, and who 
always had an indescribable air, as if he 
had just stepped out of some romance or 
poem ! 

Mrs. Middleton cannot help laughing. 
‘‘I don’t see it,” she says; ‘‘and I saw 
Sarah Percival two or three times, and 
thought her a handsome girl.” 

‘‘So she was,” says the squire, open- 
ing the door. ‘‘What’s the joke ?” For 
Mrs. Middleton is laughing still. She 
has given her suppressed emotions the 
rein, and relieves them in this manner, 
while her companion sits by her, amazed 
and half offended at the outburst. She 
cannot answer for a moment, and mean- 
while Mr. Thorne has taken the minia- 
ture from Mrs. James in a matter-of-fact 
way, which does not admit of the threat- 
ened apology. 

Mrs. Middleton finds breath to ex- 
plain: ‘‘It’s nothing, Godfrey. Only Mrs. 
James thinks Percival like a negro.” 

‘‘Now, really. Aunt Harriet, it is too 
bad,” the lady interposes: ‘‘you should- 
n’t repeat my little random speeches.” 

‘‘Too bad, Harriet!” says her brother. 
‘‘ Don’t you see that it is impossible ” — 
he looks at the portrait as he speaks — 
‘‘that Mrs. James should appreciate my 
favorites ? — Shall we go to luncheon ?” 
He offers his arm to his daughter-in-law. 
She takes it with a sweet smile, and turns 
away her head for a moment with a face 
like a thunder-cloud. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

WHAT IS LOVE? 

‘‘ I’m glad Mrs. James isn’t my mother,” 
said Sissy confidentially to Percival. 

‘‘So am I,” he replied dryly. ‘‘I 
shouldn’t care to have to emigrate im- 
mediately after our marriage.” 


120 


^^FOR RERCIVALF 


“She does crush me so when she kisses 
me. She made quite an impression of 
her malachite brooch on my face this 
morning. It hurt so: is it gone?” 

She turned a cheek like a delicate 
rose-leaf to the light for his inspection. 
“ Horace seems very fond of her, doesn’t 
he?’’ she went on. 

“They watch each other as if each 
played cat to the other’s mouse,’’ Per- 
cival replied. “ If that is being very 
fond, never were couple so attached 
before.’’ 

“Percival,’’ Sissy hesitated. “I don’t 
think she always tells the truth.’’ 

“ What barefaced falsehood has forced 
you to see that ?’’ 

“This morning she came in and held 
out a letter, and when she saw me she 
said to him, ‘ From your aunt Matilda, 
my dear.’ That’s her sister, you know. 
But once, a long while ago, Horace had 
a letter from Miss Benham on his birth- 
day, and we laughed at it, for it was 
shaky and just as if she had scratched 
it with a pin ; and this was great round 
writing, like a boy’s, and as thick — oh, 
ever so thick !’’ 

“ Perhaps Miss Benham has taken to 
black her letters with a brush,’’ Percival 
suggested. 

“And Horace took it and got quite 
pink.’’ 

“ Perhaps he is very fond of his aunt 
Matilda too. Sissy, should you mind very 
much if I went away for a few days ?’’ 

“Went away? why?’’ 

“ I think it would be best. I should- 
n’t like to have any quarrel or unpleas- 
antness, just now especially. Horace 
and I don’t get on quite so well as we 
used, dear. I don’t think it is his doing 
altogether: I think Mrs. James has some- 
thing to answer for. Or — who knows ? — 
it might be the letter from Aunt Matilda 
put him out a little.’’ 

She looked doubtfully up at him. “ But 
must you go ?’’ she said. “ Horace won’t 
stay very long.’’ 

“That is why I must, I think. We 
don’t want him to get into trouble, do 
we ? My grandfather would take my 
part, right or wrong, and we should 
break Aunt Harriet’s heart.’’ 


“Yes, go,’’ hanging her head sadly. 

“ It will only be for a few days. Don’t 
look so mournful : you’ll have enough of 
me soon, believe me.’’ 

“ I wish I were sure of that,’’ she an- 
swered in an eager whisper. 

“Wish you were sure you would be 
tired of me one of these days ? Well, 
that’s a droll wish, you strange child. 
Look up, and tell me what you mean 
by it.’’ 

“ I mean I want all of you, I think ;’’ 
and she laid her head on his shoulder. 

Percival was silent for a moment. She 
was his darling, his pride. At a word, a 
glance, he would have laid down his life 
for her. But as she spoke it flashed upon 
him that she possessed but a very small 
portion of that life. What multitudes of 
thoughts, fancies, longings, memories had 
gone to make up the fi ve-and-twenty years 
of his existence ! Some of them were dim 
floating phantoms, which would be trans- 
formed if they were clothed in any words 
whatever. And there were political day- 
dreams, of Reform (general, and with a 
big R), and dreams of something beyond 
politics — of the future of Humanity (with 
a big H). How could he explain these 
to Sissy ? She would be bewildered, if 
indeed her soul, fenced and pure, did not 
shrink from some of his unfettered as- 
pirations after good. She knew a little 
of the ordinary level of his life, but he 
knew of thoughts which had risen high 
above it, when his soul was drawn like 
a mighty tide Godward, and of thoughts 
which had sunk far below it. Could he 
have told her of the first, she would have 
thought him a miracle of perfection. 
Could he have told her of the last, the 
red which mounted to his brow would 
have stained her whiteness with shame. 
In neither case would she have better un- 
derstood him — rather, fatally misunder- 
stood him. If he could not truly possess 
those lofty impulses, neither was he truly 
possessed by the lower ones. Must it al- 
ways be so between man and woman ? he 
wondered, as he stood with his arm about 
Sissy. Or was the fault in her or in him- 
self? Did he even know himself? What 
dim abysses of thought would open in 
his mind sometimes as he lay in wakeful 


PERCIVALF 


I2I 


midnight dreams ! What unexpected fan- 
cies would spring up and blossom in his 
brain ! Could one human being ever 
know another ? Hardly ; but then what 
was love ? Perhaps only a germ of div- 
ination here, which should ripen into 
knowledge in a far-off eternity. He could 
fancy Judith Lisle, for instance, reading 
his soul in some new and more transpa- 
rent life, and if it were a purer soul, which 
had no need to flinch, he thought it would 
be a pleasant thing to be penetrated by 
that quiet gaze. Man’s isolation here 
might be unavoidable, but something in 
the shadowy loneliness of thought rath- 
er reminded him of the dusky gloom in 
which a cuttlefish shrouds himself from 
unwelcome pursuers. He liked to fancy 
Judith — Judith ! and all the while his 
arm was round Sissy’s waist ! 

“My dear child,’’ he said hurriedly, 
“ take the best of me : you don’t want all. 
You looked charming the other night in 
those pearls my grandfather gave you. 
All the better that you were content with 
the pearls, and did not insist on taking 
the fish and the shells in your pocket.’’ 

She laughed, drawing closer to him. 
Then she smiled, then she sighed: “Give 
me just what you like, Percival : it will 
always be more than all the rest of the 
world put together.’’ 

He kissed her. “What have I done to 
deserve all this ?’’ he said. And he went 
away, musing, to announce his approach- 
ing departure to his grandfather. 

He had only hinted at the cause in his 
talk with Sissy. He had had something 
very like a quarrel with his cousin that 
morning. Horace, lying back in an 
easy -chair, had attacked him as he 
stood in his favorite attitude on the rug 
reading the Times. He had answered 
lightly at first, refolding his paper and 
beginning a fresh column ; but Horace 
had persisted in pouring forth fresh re- 
proaches, interrupted from time to time 
by his terrible fits of coughing. Those 
coughing fits were more eloquent than 
words could have been. Percival, glan- 
cing at him, thought that he had never 
before realized the full significance of 
the mediaeval “Dances of Death.’’ It 
would hardly have seemed strange or 


unnatural had he seen a skeleton lean- 
ing, with dry arms folded, on the back 
of the chair in which Horace lay dis- • 
puting about his rights and wrongs. He 
could even fancy how the spectre, before 
putting out its bony hand, would look at 
him over his cousin’s head, as much as 
to say, “You and I understand all about 
it, don’t we ? But won’t he be surprised 
when I — Eh ?’’ And without any such 
ghastly imaginings the contrast between 
the two young men was terrible enough. 
Percival could see it, for he had turned 
round and stood nearly facing the mir- 
ror, where his reflection confronted him, 
erect, strong, and with a pleasantly de- 
fiant look of health and well-being. 
Though he was always pale rather than 
otherwise, there was a slight color on his 
cheek — not a mere surface tint, but show- 
ing that the blood coursed warmly be- 
neath the olive skin. His lips were red, 
his glance was bright, as if he were dark- 
ly glowing with abundant life. And Hor- 
ace lay back in his chair, frail, slim and 
bloodless, chafing his transparent hands. 
He had a beauty of his own : his eyes 
were almost painfully brilliant, and two 
spots of vivid pink flushed the whiteness 
of his face. How could Percival do any- 
thing but listen to him with the gentlest 
patience? Yet he was sorely tried. It 
is not pleasant to be taxed with wronging 
a man behind his back, and playing Ja- 
cob’s part, especially when poor Esau 
has not been hunting and enjoying him- 
self, but was sent to the south of France 
for a last chance. 

“ Don’t let us quarrel, Horace,’’ Perci- 
val had said. “Yes. what you say is true 
enough. When I came here first, five or 
six years ago, many a fellow in your po- 
sition would have made himself uncom- 
monly disagreeable, and you didn’t. You 
met me almost like a brother. You may 
be sure I shall remember that.’’ 

“ I don’t want your memory,’’ sneered 
Horace from his chair: “ I want justice.’’ 

“Be just, then,’’ Percival replied, with 
as it were a hint of inflexibility in his 
tone. “ Is it not right and natural that 
I should be often at Brackenhill during 
this last winter. Sissy being to me — what 
she is ?’’ 


122 


<*FOR PERCIVALF 


“Oh, it was all Sissy, no doubt,” said 
Horace; and then there was a prolonged 
pause. Percival stood by, watching the 
slender frame shaken by the terrible 
cough. He had an absurd feeling, as 
if he were ashamed of himself, when he 
saw Horace struggling with it, and then 
leaning back utterly spent and feeble, 
with the painful flush brighter than ever 
on his cheeks. It seemed to him that 
he, being so strong and well, ought to 
have borne the pain, instead of the poor 
fellow who looked up after a moment, 
took his handkerchief from his lips, and 
tried to go on. 

“This was my home once," Horace 
said : “ you can’t deny it. And now I 
haven’t a home, I suppose, for God knows 
this is none. My grandfather treats me 
like a visitor, and fixes the length of my 
stay. Sissy couldn’t so much as say she 
was glad to see me when we met. Aunt 
Harriet — ” 

“Nonsense!” said Percival. “Why, 
you are the apple of her eye!” 

“ Do you think I can’t see the differ- 
ence ?” Horace demanded. “And I 
know who has done it all behind my 
back. Well, Percival, I suppose you’ll 
enjoy it : I shouldn’t.” 

“ Horace, listen to me. I can’t stand 
this.” He felt, as he spoke, as if it were 
rather mean to overpower his cousin’s 
feeble utterance with his strong voice. 
“ Of course I have been here oftener of 
late : it was only natural. But as to my 
attempting to supplant you, or doing any- 
thing behind your back that I wouldn’t 
have done with you here, you know per- 
fectly well it isn’t true ; or you would 
know if you were more yourself.” 

“Stop!” said Horace as the other turn- 
ed away. “ If it isn’t true, prove it.” 

“Prove it?” said Percival, with his head 
high in the air. 

“Say, once and for all, that you are 
not trying for Brackenhill. Say you’ll 
not take it even if he offers to leave it 
to you : he has no right. Of course if I 
died, that would be another thing. But 
swear you’ll not have it while I live.” 

Percival spoke instinctively: “No, I’ll 
not swear either way.” 

“ Then we’ll fight it out,” said the fee- 


ble voice from the arm-chair — “to the 
bitter end, as they are so fond of saying 
now.” 

“ Fight ? nonsense !” Percival answer- 
ed. “I’m not going to fight you, my 
dear fellow, nor you me. You see every- 
thing awry to-day. I say I won’t make 
any promises. I hate promises — attempts 
to make a moment eternal, bonds which 
are never needed unless they chafe. So 
I won’t pledge myself to anything def- 
inite, and you instantly take it for grant- 
ed that I am pledged to cheat you.” 

“ Put all that stuff about promises into 
a magazine article : I needn’t read it,” 
said Horace, aiming at a cool and scorn- 
ful demeanor. “ I only want to know 
what you mean.” 

“ I have told you.” 

“ Percival, it is my right, and you know 
it,” the invalid exclaimed. For a mo- 
ment Percival almost hesitated. The 
excessive anxiety which was visible on 
his cousin’s face surprised him, and 
touched him with the kind of pity which 
makes a man’s heart ache, while he can 
hardly repress a smile. Here was this 
poor dying fellow in agonies about his 
inheritance, when in all probability his 
grandfather would outlive him. It was 
as if a prisoner, ordered out for execu- 
tion, should be anxious about- having a 
particular dinner awaiting him done to 
a turn, in case a reprieve should arrive 
on the .scaffold. Why not humor the 
sick man in his whim ? No : he hated 
promises. His prudence forbade him to 
set foot in a labyrinth of which he had 
not the clew. 

“ It is my right,” Horace repeated. 
“And I have my grandfather’s word.” 

“You have his word?” 

“Yes: on one condition, that is.” 

“ What condition ? No, I have no 
business to ask that. If you have kept 
it — ” 

“ No fear of my not keeping it,” said 
Horace with something like triumph in 
his eyes. 

“ If you have his word, what more can 
you want ?” 

“You know you can turn him round 
your finger,” Horace answered. “Well, 
you must do your worst. From this time 


''FOR PERCIVALF 


123 


forward I shall know what I have to ex- 
pect. We’ll fight it out.” 

‘‘ No, we won’t do anything of the kind.” 

"Which means,” said Horace, “that 
I shall fight openly, and you’ll fight with 
professions of friendship. As you please.” 

It would have been nearly impossible 
not to think that these terrible coughing 
fits came at very convenient times. But 
it was quite impossible not to perceive 
their painful reality. Percival was si- 
lenced again. 

“Most likely you’ll win: I’d advise 
any one to back you,” said Horace 
hoarsely. There was something gro- 
tesque and almost terrible in the fee- 
ble obstinacy which clung ever to the 
one thought. “Only, you know now that, 
winning or losing, you have nothing to 
expect from me. You quite understand ?” 
His eyes glittered as he looked up at his 
cousin. He seemed determined to fix a 
quarrel on him. You won’t expect any 
further friendship.” 

Percival had been gazing thoughtfully 
into the mirror again until Horace was 
able to speak. Perhaps that accounted 
for the quiet answer : “ We won’t discuss 
our friendship now. I quite understand 
that I am to expect nothing but high 
tragedy till further notice : I prefer some- 
thing not quite so much beyond me for 
my every-day life; so I think I’ll say 
good-bye for the present.” 

“You may sneer,” said Horace, “but 
I mean what I say.” 

“So do I,” said Percival. “I very de- 
cidedly mean that it takes two to make 
a quarrel, and I am not going to be one 
of them. Here ! do you care to look at 
the paper ?” And laying it down by his 
cousin’s side, he went off, whistling soft- 
ly to himself, and leaving Horace to look 
sideways at the Times as if it were the 
deadliest of insults. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

GODFREY HAMMOND ON BIRD-CATCHING. 

An evening or two later Percival walk- 
ed into Godfrey Hammond’s room, to its 
owner’s great surprise. “ I thought you 
were at Brackenhill,” he said. 


“ So I was till Saturday.” 

“Come up to get things ready ?” 

“Come up for a little peace, and to 
leave a little peace there. Mrs. James 
is too fond of me.” 

“What?” said Hammond. 

“Oh, it’s all right,” Percival replied: 
“she is much too fond of me to my face. 
But she makes it all even when my back 
is turned.” 

“So you have left her in possession ?” 

“Well, I came to the conclusion that 
the same house couldn’t hold us, unless 
it were a good many sizes bigger than 
Brackenhill. And I couldn’t take her 
by the shoulders and turn her out of it, 
as it wasn’t mine.” 

“ H’m,” said Godfrey. “ How does she 
get on with the squire ?” 

“Charmingly. He sees right through 
her, and she is blissfully unconscious of 
it.” 

“ And what is she like to look at ?” said 
Hammond. “ I don’t believe I’ve seen 
her for twenty years. Hunting Harry, 
as we called her, used to be handsome 
— for those who liked the sort.” 

Percival shrugged his shoulders : “Well, 
for a woman of her age, she is handsome 
now — for those who like the sort. Only 
she comes marching along in a ‘ Who- 
comes-here? — A-grenadier’ fashion, and 
when the story ought to go on with a 
good wholesome pot of beer, or some- 
thing equally matter of fact, you get a 
dose of stale rose-water sentiment in a 
rasping voice.” 

“And is she very fond of the squire ?” 

Percival nodded: “Fonder than she is 
of me, and that’s saying a good deal. As 
complimentary as — as — what shall I say ? 
— ;-as a testimonial to some one you never 
want to see again.” 

“Ought not you to be looking after 
things a little?” 

The young man smiled. “Surely, in 
vain the net is spread in the sight of any 
bird,” he said. 

“That’s Solomon, isn’t it? Well, I 
dare say it may be true enough — of 
birds. I never tried it, but I can fancy 
a knowing old bird watching the process 
of spreading the net with lively interest, 
and its head very much on one side, 


T24 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


and then ungratefully flying off to an un- 
attainable tree. But if he meant it for 
men, I deny it utterly. It is just the net 
that a man sees that he walks straight 
into. He can’t leave it alone and go 
away. He must show every one how 
plainly he sees it, and how perfectly he 
understands the principle on which the 
snare is arranged, and how very much 
closer he can venture in safety than any 
one else could. In fact, there is really 
710 danger for him. And the next thing 
you know, there he is, right in the mid- 
dle of it, explaining that he always meant 
to walk into it and get caught one of these 
fine days.” 

"Very true, I dare say,” said Percival. 
“But I don’t think Mrs. James will do 
much with my grandfather. Nor do I 
see that Horace and I need clash in 
any way.” 

“ No, I suppose not,” said Godfrey. 
He thought of Horace’s father dying 
twenty years earlier, as Horace was dy- 
ing now. “ I suppose not,” he repeated. 
“ He’ll go abroad again before the win- 
ter comes, won’t he ?” 

Percival started when he saw the di- 
rection Hammond’s thoughts had taken : 
“Yes — I hope so — that is — if — ” He 
stopped abruptly. 

“Ah, you think he’ll be past that? 
Ever see any one in a decline before ?” 

The other shook his head. 

“ Probably you think him in more im- 
mediate danger than he really is. Poor 
Jim was a long while ill, I remember.” 
He rubbed his hard white hands together 
as he spoke, and gazed at his great sig- 
net-ring as if all the past lay hidden be- 
neath its onyx surface. 

“Godfrey,” said Percival abruptly, “I 
came away partly because of Horace. 
He wants to quarrel with me : he fan- 
cies I’m trying to supplant him. His 
thoughts are terribly set on Bracken- 
hill, poor fellow ! though what he can 
want with Brackenhill I hardly know. 
There’s something ghastly in it to me, 
since it can only be for himself. He 
wanted me to swear I wouldn’t take 
it while he lived. I hope I wasn’t cruel 
to deny the poor fellow his fancy — if it 
really was a fancy, and not an excuse 


for a quarrel. But I hate promises I 
can’t understand. Of course my grand- 
father would leave it to him : that was 
settled ages ago. I won’t do anything 
unfair — he ought to know that — but why 
am I to pledge myself in the dark ?” 

“Mrs. James isn’t dying, if Horace is, 
poor fellow!” said Godfrey. “Perhaps 
she has some little scheme. Of course 
you were right enough, Percival : you 
always were a prudent young man.” 

Percival felt as if he colored. He 
passed his hand quickly over his face : 
“I’m not so sure of that.” 

“Not like Horace,” Godfrey went on. 
“ He narrowly escaped getting into the 
squire’s black books last year — irre- 
trievably too — at the agricultural show. 
How time goes ! We shall have it here 
again directly.” 

“What did he do?” 

“ It was those Blake girls. The squire 
thought there was something between him 
and Addie, and he vowed he wouldn’t 
have one of them at Brackenhill : he’d 
make it into an asylum for idiots sooner. 
I hardly think he’d have pardoned 
Percival, if you had fallen in love with 
Lottie just then.” 

“There was no fear.” 

“So it seems. I don’t know why he 
should have been so furious, either : the 
Blakes were better than the Benhams. 
But he was. I think he threatened Mas- 
ter Horace, and then, as it happened, 
they went away ; so it blew over. Where 
are they now ?” 

“ Lottie and her mother are abroad 
somewhere : I’m sure I don’t know 
where. Addie is with that half-brother 
of hers, who got most of the money.” 

“Addie was worth all the others put 
together,” said Godfrey. 

Percival shook his head. That glow 
of pity and brotherly sympathy which 
was kindled in his heart on the hillside 
a year before had not died out. “I like Lot- 
tie best,” he said simply as he rose to go. 

Godfrey went out with him, asking 
about Mrs. Middleton and Sissy. At 
the head of the stairs he paused : 
“Talking of old friends, did you hear 
that Miss Lisle’s engagement was off?” 

Percival was a couple of steps below 


^'FOR PERCIVALF 


T25 


him. He flung his head back a little 
defiantly: ‘‘Why, yes — months ago." 

‘‘Ah, of course.” Godfrey lowered his 
voice. "Young Marchmont was a lucky 
fellow to get his dismissal." 

" I don’t see his luck. Rather the other 
way.” 

"You haven’t looked at this evening’s 
paper ?" 

" No. What has young Marchmont 
got ?’’ 

" Nothing. But Lisle’s bank has smash- 
ed, and they say he isn’t to be found." 

" My God !" cried Percival, "you don’t 
mean that ?" 

Hammond nodded: "Bolted. March- 
mont has had a lucky escape. I suppose 
it’s an awful crash." 

"And Judith — Miss Lisle — how will 
she bear it? If I were Marchmont — if 
I’d ever loved a girl. I’d give the world 
to have the right to stand by her at such 
a time as that." 

" Don Quixote ! I won’t betray you to 
St. Cecilia,” Hammond laughed a little 
enviously. "Why you are a lucky fel- 
low too, Percival. Two or three years 
ago, before you came of age, he was 
your guardian, wasn’t he ? Much you’d 
have seen of your money if the smash 
had come then ! I say, take care there !" 

The young man, who was going down 
stairs in a bewildered way, like one in a 
dream, stumbled and caught at the rail : 
" Confound it, Godfrey ! you’ve got a 
loose stair-rod, or something. Nearly 
broke my neck.” He recovered himself 
a little. " I can’t believe it yet. Are you 
sure it’s true ? That he has gone ?" 

"I’m afraid there’s no doubt,” said 
Hammond. 

"And left her to face it all ? Well, he 
was my father’s friend, but — ” and Per- 
cival used some language which would 
not have been suitable for a young la- 
dies’ school. It might even have been 
thought a shade too forcible for a relig- 
ious pzfper in a passion. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

OF A HERMIT CRAB, 

Connaissez-vous une bete qu’on nomme bernard 
I'ermite? C’est une tres-petit homard, gros comme 


une sauterelle, que a une queue sans ecailles II 
prend la coquille qui convient k sa queue, I’v fourre, 
et se promene ainsi au bord de la mer. Hier j’en ai 
trouve un dont j'ai cass^ la coquille tres-proprement 
sans ecraser I’animal puis je I’ai mis dans un plat 
d’eau de mer. II y faisait la plus piteuse mine,” — 
Prosper Micrimee ; Lettres a une Inconnue. 

It was a wonderful thing for Percival 
Thorne to be seen tearing along a rail- 
way - platform in furious haste. He so 
prided himself on never being in a hurry 
that he was conscious of a painful loss of 
dignity and self-respect on such an oc- 
casion. But the afternoon after his con- 
versation with Godfrey Hammond he had 
dashed into the station, taken a ticket for 
Fordborough, and leapt into the nearest 
carriage without a glance at its occupant. 

The train puffed slowly off. Even over 
London the May sunlight hung like a 
golden glory, and as they glided out of 
the station and quickened their pace 
through green fields the sky was the 
deepest, purest blue. Percival did not 
see it. He was still discomposed, feel- 
ing in his pockets to see what he had 
and what he had left behind (as people 
always do when they jump in in a hurry), 
and a little out of breath still. Presently 
he crossed his legs with a sigh of relief. 
After which he took off his hat, pushed 
back his hair and felt better. 

Then the lady, who was dressed in 
black and sat in the farthest corner, 
put up her veil, leaned forward and 
said "Percival!” 

"Why, Addie, I didn’t know you!” 
He moved to the seat opposite hers, 
and as their hands met he thought of 
that evening in Langley Wood. 

"I had the advantage of leisure,” 
smiled Addie. "I don’t suppose I should 
have been undetected long.” 

"You are going down to F ordborough ?’ ’ 

"Yes. We hope to let our house there, 
and I am going down to make some final 
arrangements and to bring a few things 
away.” 

" Rather a dreary errand. You don’t 
think of living at Fordborough any more, 
then 

" Not at present. I hope we shall some 
day.” 

In Percival’s state of mind it was pleas- 
anter to question than to be questioned. 


126 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


So he proceeded to ascertain that she 
was with Oliver, as he had supposed, 
and that Oliver was a dear, good, dar- 
ling fellow — that they were staying at 
a little seaside village, and that Oliver 
was thinking about a yacht. 

But she interrupted his questions at 
last. “And how does the world treat 
you?” she asked. 

“Very much as I deserve,” was the 
brief reply. “So I must not complain, 
must I ?” 

“I don’t know,” said Addie. “I like 
to be treated a little better than I de- 
serve. But I don’t think you ought to 
complain : I may congratulate you, may- 
n’t I ? I have never seen you since I 
heard — Is it to be soon ?” 

“ In less than a month now,” he an- 
swered with his pleasant smile. 

“ I saw Miss Langton at the agricul- 
tural show last year,” said Addie. “I 
congratulate you with all my heart, for 
1 thought she looked charming.” Perci- 
val thanked her with a slight inclination 
of his head and a well - pleased glance. 
“ I suppose you are going to Brackenhill 
now ? Your errand ought to be a pleas- 
anter one than mine.” 

“My errand is on a business matter, 
and might be pleasanter than it is.” 
There was a touch of bitterness in his 
tone. 

“ I’m sorry,” said Addie, looking at 
him with friendly anxiety in her eyes. 
“I hope it isn’t anything serious.” 

“ Serious ? oh no ! Did you ever read 
about Sinbad the Sailor ?” 

“A long time ago,” she said with a 
wondering smile. 

“I’m Sinbad,” said Percival calmly. 
“ People say that everybody has a skel- 
eton in a closet. I don’t know what 
yours may be like ” — a flash of expres- 
sion passed across Addie’s face — “as 
pleasant as a skeleton can be, I hope : 
mine is the Old Man of the Sea.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Exactly what I say. I’m going down 
now expressly to invite him to get up on 
my shoulders.” 

“Perhaps he won’t,” in an encourag- 
ing tone. 

“Heaven help me if he doesn’t!” ex- 


claimed Percival. “ What would become j 
of me ? But he will.” i 

“Are you quite sure that you know 
what you really want?” Addie inquired j 
with a smile. 

“ Perhaps not. And in these days of ■ 
restoring and beautifying everybody’s , 
memory, I feel bound to observe that 
I have studied the Old Man of the Sea, 
and there is much to be said for him.” 

“Well, I hope you may enjoy carrying 
him more than you expect to do,” said 
Addie. Then she hesitated, consulted 
her watch, looked out of the window, 
buttoned and unbuttoned her glove. 
“There was something I wanted to say 
to you, Percival, and I shall hardly find 
a better opportunity.” 

Sinbad was forgotten in a moment : 
“Say on. Is it anything you want me 
to do?” 

“ You were very good to me last year,” 
she said. (Percival disclaimed her praise 
with a quick movement of his hand.) 
“If ever you should have reason to think 
me ungrateful, I want to say that it will not 
be that I have forgotten : I don’t forget. 

It will be that I could not help myself. 
There’s no knowing what may happen. 

I only thought I should like to say so.” 

Percival half smiled as he looked her 
in the face: “No knowing? I think there 
is some knowing. Oh, don’t be frighten- 
ed : it is you who know, not I. You have 
some reason for saying this, of course.” 

“Perhaps,” said Addie. “But I don’t 
know. I only wanted you to under- 
stand.” 

“You remind me of what I used to 
learn about Gunpowder Plot long ago : 

‘ Monteagle knew not what to think of 
this letter.’ I feel very much like Mont- 
eagle. What is amiss, Addie ? Am I 
going to be blown up ?” 

“We’ll hope not.” 

“Monteagle had no chance of asking 
questions, had he ? But then, you see, he 
had the sagacity of his ‘ most dread sov- 
ereign ’ to fall back upon. No matter : 

I will not easily believe any ill of you, 
Addie. We have been good friends, and 
I think I may trust you.” 

“No, don’t trust me. That is just it.’' 

She was so evidently perplexed and 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


127 


troubled that he grew grave. "Must you 
talk in riddles ?” he asked. “ I don’t like 
hints of something underhand and mys- 
terious. I can’t in the least imagine what 
you can possibly mean, or why I should 
ever think differently of you. But I have 
had a blow : a man whom I would have 
trusted with everything has just turned 
out a swindler. He was false all the time 
when I believed him most. The ugliest 
truth is better than that. And I don’t 
think your truth can be very ugly, Addie. 
Let’s have it out and make an end of it.” 

She shook her head : “ It isn’t mine. 
You don’t know what you are asking : 
it isn’t possible. Only some day you will 
think me rather mean : that’s all. You 
trust people too much : you think every 
one is as good as yourself.” 

” If there are not a good many better, 
the earth will soon want salt,” said Per- 
cival. ‘‘And don’t trouble yourself about 
my excessive trustfulness : there’s some 
hope of my getting rid of it at this rate, 
isn’t there?” 

‘‘ I wish I could say more,” sighed Ad- 
die. ‘‘ But even now I am half afraid — ” 

‘‘ Not of me, I hope. There’s no occa- 
sion, really. I shall just take my chance 
and drift to the end of the chapter.” 

She looked almost wistfully at him, 
and sighed again, but said no more. 
The train rushed on through level fields 
and softly-swelling hills, and she watched 
the trailing cloud of white, which, linger- 
ing as it went, caught the sunlight for a 
moment on its rounded masses before 
they melted into the summer air. Per- 
cival was silent too. In spite of what 
he had said, he could not refrain from 
some wonder as to Addie’s meaning. 
He thought of Horace ; but what had 
Addie to do with Horace now ? He 
thought of Sissy ; but how could these 
two be sharers in a mystery ? Besides, 
he had made up his mind that the shad- 
ow in Sissy’s life was cast by a mere 
cloud, not by any substantial fact. She 
was not well: she was low-spirited, she 
had fancies. She could not tell him, be- 
cause she could not put a sense of gray 
oppression into words. Already she was 
better, and when he took her away into 
new scenes and among new people, all 


this vague grief and terror would be 
laughed at or forgotten. It was im- 
possible that there could be anything 
known to Addie Blake and Sissy which 
could seriously menace him. ‘‘When 
women get a chance of talking myste- 
riously, they are sure to make the most 
of it,” thought Percival. And yet ‘‘some 
day you will think me rather mean” was 
hardly like a romantic secret. There was 
a ring of prosaic certainty about such an 
anticipation as that. Percival was in- 
clined to believe that if the nut were 
cracked some kernel of truth might be 
found, but he was not at all sure. He 
was quite sure that Addie believed there 
was such a kernel. But she might be 
mistaken ; nor does every kernel, how- 
ever carefully it may be planted and wa- 
tered, necessarily produce a tree which 
will bear fruit. He had troubles of his 
own to think about just then, and felt 
disinclined for this nutcracking, which 
if successful would evidently get his in- 
formant into a scrape. ‘‘No: if ever I 
have to think her rather mean, she shall 
have no chance of returning the com- 
pliment,” was Percival’s final decision. 
And he felt a little glow of satisfaction 
as he came to it ; which was all very 
well, for so far as it was not dictated by 
laziness it was inspired by a courteous 
loyalty to Addie Blake. (It would be 
useless to go into the question of pro- 
portions.) And when he had thus hero- 
ically determined not to exert himself, 
he leant back and his eyes wandered 
over the landscape, at first with that 
sort of undefined pleasure and attrac- 
tion which we feel when a face in a 
crowd recalls the face of a dear friend. 
Perhaps a moment later we wake to the 
sudden consciousness that it is our friend 
himself advancing to greet us. It was 
so with Percival. First, as he gazed ab- 
sently at the country round, it brought 
Fordborough and Brackenhill, as it were, 
into the background of his thoughts. A 
moment later he perceived that familiar 
landmarks were gliding past him, and 
that they were close to their destination. 

He sprang out as soon as the train 
stopped and secured a fly for Addie. 
‘‘Can’t say much for the horse,” he re- 


128 


PERCIVALF 


marked as he came back. “ There are 
only three. He’s an awful screw, but I 
don’t fancy he’s worse than the other 
two, and I rather think each of the oth- 
ers is.” 

‘‘I haven’t far to go,” she said as she 
swept along the platform in her queen- 
liest fashion by his side. 

‘‘Remember me to Mrs. Blake and 
your sister when you write,” said Per- 
cival. 

She flashed a swift glance at him : ‘‘ I 
will : good-bye.” He lifted his hat, and 
she was gone. 

‘‘ Queer I should have met her after my 
talk with Godfrey yesterday !” thought he. 
‘‘She’s handsomer than ever. I wonder 
if she ever cared for poor Horace ? Why, 
she never so much as asked after him ! 
Can’t have cared very much. And yet I 
don’t know. There is no knowing about 
such things.” And shrugging his shoul- 
ders he dismissed the matter from his 
thoughts, and went to the White Hart 
to get a dog-cart to take him to Brack- 
enhill. 

A quarter of an hour later he was on 
his way. The soft air, the bright sun- 
light, the varying lights and shadows, 
the merry singing of the birds, the first 
wild roses in the hedgerows, — he noted 
them all as he sped along the pleasant 
road. But his eyes were sombre and 
the line was deeper between his brows. 
He had laughed about his errand to Ad- 
die Blake, but you may get laughter out 
of that which yields neither hope nor 
comfort. Laughter often goes well with 
bitterness, and Percival’s soul was very 
bitter that day as he thought of the er- 
rand on which he had come. 

If there was one thing he prized in 
the world, it was his independence. He 
knew well enough that it was something 
outside himself — no power or strength 
of his own. Training and temperament 
had conspired to make him as depend- 
ent as a girl, but he could defy them. 
‘‘I am like a hermit crab,” he had own- 
ed to himself — ‘‘uncommonly helpless 
unless I get hold of somebody’s shell.” 
But, after all, since his grandfather the 
rector had left him a handy little shell 
enough, he could face the world very 


fairly. It might have been more spa- 
cious, no doubt. Brackenhill would have 
been a splendid shell, delicately tinted 
and lined with pearl, and our hermit 
crab felt that he could have filled it suc- 
cessfully. That, however, could not be 
his without two deaths, and he refrained 
as far as possible from thinking of such 
ghastly stepping-stones. - 

He had feared, as has been already i 
said, that his marriage might entail upon ’ 
him a certain amount of dependence on 
his grandfather, but through all his anx- ! 
iety there had remained to him the cer- 
tainty of that little shell of his own, into 
which he could retire if need were, and 
show his claws. He was not a homeless 
hermit crab, dragging himself over the 
sand, and so conscious of his defence- 
less condition that he must accept any 
shell that was offered him on any terms. 
Sissy, by an accident of inheritance, was 
more splendidly housed, and together 
they could resist all the power of Brack- 
enhill — a fact which took away the de- 
sire to do so. While he was assured of 
the necessaries of life Percival could ac- 
cept or refuse its luxuries as he pleased, 
and he had been treated as if he con- 
ferred a favor when he consented to take 
them. He felt sure he could do without 
the luxuries at a moment’s notice, and 
that he could compel himself to live 
within a much narrower income than 
he possessed. For, though he dearly 
loved his ease, he was clear-headed 
and accurate in money -matters, and if 
he lacked energy he had considerable 
powers of passive endurance. But if he 
were robbed of the necessaries of life — 
Was there ever a hermit crab who could 
7nake himself a shell ? 

Yet, in spite of all his troubles, he was 
conscious of an increasing pleasure as he 
drew near to the old manor-house. Per- 
cival had never owned to mortal being 
the passion he had for Brackenhill — a 
passion which had grown up in opposi- 
tion to his will. Every stone of its walls, 
every bough of its trees, was dear to him. 

He had gone there first with the inten- 
tion of scorning it, and of showing his 
grandfather that he scorned it. In the 
latter he had so thoroughly succeeded 


*^FOR PERCIVALr 


129 


— at first in sincerity, and later through 
his unconquerable reserve — that the old 
man believed that this most treasured pos- 
session was worth but little in his favor- 
ite’s eyes. It was his own fault, he would 
say to himself. He had exiled Alfred and 
his son, and the boy had grown up an 
outsider — a Percival, and not a Thorne, 
rather with feelings of bitterness against 
the Thornes. He had done it himself, 
and the retribution was j ust. Percival had 
said when first he saw his father’s home 
that he “liked looking at old houses.’’ 
That was all that Brackenhill was to him. 
The words were graven on the squire’s 
memory, and no syllable had been utter- 
ed which would in the slightest degree 
efface them. It was the deepest long- 
ing of the old man’s heart that Percival 
might reign after him ; and even if it 
could be, his happiness would not be 
complete, since his boy despised Brack- 
enhill. “Any other old house would do 
as well,’’ Godfrey Thorne would say with 
a sigh. “ Perhaps he’d sell the place if 
he had it, and buy another somewhere 
else. Only Sissy cares for it.’’ 

If any one had told him that his grand- 
son cared more for the old house than 
he did himself, he would have answer- 
ed with a smile of unbelief; yet it would 
have been true. Brackenhill was the 
background of all Percival’s day-dreams, 
i He loved the terrace -walk with its bal- 
j ustrade ; the flight of steps, with mossy 
I balls of stone on either hand ; the en- 
1 trance - hall, with its stately pavement 
I of white and black ; the great staircase, 
down which Sissy came with light foot- 
balls and shining eyes. Above all, he 
f loved the long drawing-room, with its 
P antique furniture and its lingering per- 
Ifume of the roses of years gone by. 

Not even to Sissy had a syllable of this 
passion been breathed. Percival’s role 
from the first had been to accept the fact 
that his father was disinherited as a sim- 
ple matter of course — not as a punish- 
ment inflicted, but as a bargain made. 
All that was lost for Sarah Percival was 
well lost : it was impossible to reason 
with her son on any other basis. He 
only dimly remembered her, and there- 
fore she was a symbol of his ideal. He 
9 


wore her name proudly, as if it were a 
title. If any of the old people in the 
neighborhood said, “Ah, I remember 
your mother,’’ his eyes flashed with sud- 
den eagerness. It seemed to him that 
if he owned his fondness for Bracken- 
hill, it might be thought that in his in- 
most heart he regretted his father’s ob- 
stinacy. With his grandfather, above all, 
he had been reserved. He knew that 
the old man loved him with such an ab- 
sorbing passion as old people sometimes 
have for the favorites of their declining 
years. They are sadly conscious that 
they have no time to change, that every- 
thing around them is strange and new, 
and that if they drop the hand to which 
they cling, trembling, they will be left 
alone in the world, having lost the swift 
instinct by which heart finds heart in 
youth. Percival understood something 
of all this, and, aftera fashion, he returned 
his grandfather’s affection. But he knew 
Mr. Thorne’s desire to be supreme, and 
actively to regulate the destinies of those 
he loved, and, fearing his caprices, would 
not give a weapon into his hand which 
might be turned against the giver. He 
had kept him at arm’s length hitherto, 
but now the Old Man of the Sea was to 
have his turn. Sinbad went to meet 
him with a sombre face, which softened 
as he drew near his journey’s end. 

For he was on the bit of road which he 
remembered so well, level and straight. 
To the right the wide meadows sloped 
gently down till they reached the river, 
and you caught the silver flash of water 
through the willows. To the left lay a 
long succession of low, rounded hills, or 
one long hill, for it was difficult to dis- 
tinguish any particular eminences in the 
ever -varied undulations. And a little 
way up the ascent stood Brackenhill, a 
long, low pile of gray, warm on its south- 
ern slope, with its park and its stately 
trees and shaven lawns about it. Be- 
hind it rose the treeless and unchang- 
ing downs, tufted with gorse and brack- 
en, grassy, sunlit and still. 

Percival felt his heart leap up and 
then sink within him as he turned in 
at the gate. 


130 


**F0R PERCIVALr 


CHAPTER XXVI. — OF CONFESSION. 



T is not pleasant to own to 
faults or follies, even though 
there may be a certainty of relief when 
the ordeal is over. Of course some con- 
fessions are worse to make than others. 
I suppose the difficulty ought to be ex- 
actly measured by the amount of guilt 
or foolishness, but I do not at all think 
it is. A Greek brigand would probably 
own to an additional murder or two more 
easily than a pattern Sunday scholar in 
his first place would confess that he had 
been overcome by the loose change in 
his master’s till. Nor does it depend on 
the kindness of our listener. Sternness 
may give us a defiant strength — gentle- 
ness may add a keener sting to our pain. 
I incline to think that the real question 
is. Will he be surprised ? 

Confession is intolerable unless it is 
met halfway. Better be understood at 
once, even if you are overwhelmed with 
reproaches, than have laboriously to draw 
down the storm by explanations. One 
may give one pull to a shower-bath string 
in December, but to have to take pains 
to get it to work properly ! And, let the 
hearer be as kind as he will, sympathy 
is impossible till surprise is overcome : 
the one must subside before the other 
can flow. Now, sympathy should an- 
swer to the appeal as the note answers 


to the finger of the musi- 
cian : if delayed, it jars. 

Therefore, if you have 
acquired a character for 
headlong impetuosity you 
may go with a light heart 
(comparatively speaking) 
and own to some thought- 
less action from whose 
consequences you want to 
be delivered. It will be 
unpleasant, but not half 
so unpleasant as if you 
had to explain that you 
had missed your life’s golden opportu- 
nity through a suspicious timidity. 

Now, Percival had to make a confes- 
sion which would cause the greatest sur- 
prise among his friends. It was not a 
crime : it was only an imprudence. But 
at Brackenhill the words Percival and 
prudence were supposed to be synony- 
mous. He might well have that appre-|i 
hensive line between his brows. Hither- 
to the hermit crab had shown his claws 
in a lofty and defiant manner, and had 
been considered rather a formidable an- 
imal than otherwise. But he felt very 
helpless and miserable as he dragged 
himself to Brackenhill to own that he 
had lost his shell. 

The old butler received him very gra- 
ciously, and told the footman to take out 
Mr. Percival’s portmanteau. / 

“ I haven’t any luggage,” said Percivall 
with a smile. (It seemed to him that it 
was a very sickly smile, and he resolved^ 
to try and do better the next time there | 
should be any occasion for one. But 
really, he reflected, smiling was very I 
difficult.) ‘‘Are they all at home?” he 
inquired. Duncan explained that there 
was no one at home except the squireJ 
Mrs. Thorne had gone up to town for, 
the day, and would not return till late, 
perhaps not till the next morning. Mr. 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


Horace had gone to Mr. Garnett’s to 
dine and sleep, and Mrs. Middleton and 
Miss Langton dined early, and had or- 
dered the pony-chaise, saying that they 
should call on Miss Falconer, but would 
be back in the evening. 

“It’s all right,’’ said Percival. “It is 
my grandfather I want to see. Is he in 
the library? I’ll go.’’ He took a step 
and then hesitated : “ No, tell him I am 
here.’’ 

He turned into the drawing-room and 
stood on the hearth-rug. He drew him- 
self up to his full height, and held his 
head all the more proudly that he should 
have to bend it soon. He gazed almost 
wrathfully at the portraits on the walls, 
at the quaint old-fashioned furniture, at 
the treasures of old china — things com- 
paratively worthless to untaught eyes, 
but speaking plainly to him of the pa- 
tient accumulation of many years. Be- 
cause he prized them they irritated him. 
How many generations of Thornes had 
lived at Brackenhill in a sort of steward- 
ship, guarding these things, adding to 
them, and bequeathing them to their suc- 
cessors ! There had been Thornes who 
were wasteful and encumbered the estate 
with mortgages, but somehow they had 
struggled on. Nothing had ever been 
I sold. Percival was angry, because he 
! understood the delicate charm of all 
j around him. He could scorn vulgar 
j splendor, but not these possessions, 

1 which were honorable in his eyes, like 
i an old name. “ How was I ever to be 
I independent?’’ he said to himself. “Why 
1 wasn’t I taught to laugh at it all, and 
■ shipped off to keep sheep in Australia, 

I like that Wingfield boy who used to 
) play with Lottie Blake ? He likes it 
. well enough. I’ll be bound ; and he’ll 

I fall on his feet anywhere, while I — ’’ 
And the tall young fellow, with his 
proud face and stately air, looked down 
at his hands, and could almost have 
groaned. He knew very well what beau- 
tiful hands they were — smooth, olive- 
skinned and useless. 

His grandfather came up the room 
with a quick, nervous step and an ex- 
pression of unmistakable anxiety in his 
eyes. What did this sudden visit mean ? 


For a moment he scanned his favorite as 
if he feared some accident might have 
happened, and Percival might have ar- 
rived, like a Chelsea pensioner, with 
much glory and a scarcity of limbs. But 
there was no sign of any such calamity 
as the young man advanced a step or 
two to meet him ; and when the squire 
saw his defiant manner and met his 
glance, he said to himself that some- 
how he had offended Percival. It was 
a relief to him that his grandson shook 
hands with him. Just for that moment 
more the hermit crab looked very for- 
midable indeed. 

“ Sissy is out,’’ said the old man. “ If 
she had known — ’’ 

“Perhaps it’s just as well,’’ Percival 
replied. “ I wanted to speak to you, if 
you are not busy.’’ 

The other shook his head: “No — 
what is it?’’ 

“Have you looked at the paper this 
morning ?’’ 

Now, the squire had been reading the 
Times in the library before luncheon, 
and had been very much astonished at 
the Lisle catastrophe. He had said to 
his sister, “Just look here ! That is the 
man Alfred trusted when he wouldn’t 
trust his own father! Left Percival in 
his charge : I wasn’t fit to take care of 
the boy — oh no ! A pretty sort of guar- 
dian, eh ? If this had happened three 
or four years earlier, where would that 
money be ?’’ But Percival’s arrival had 
so alarmed him that the whole thing had 
gone out of his head. 

“Yes — why, yes,’’ he said. He began 
to wonder how Percival could have got 
into the paper, and how he could have 
missed the paragraph. The wildest ideas 
went hurrying through his brain. The 
boy couldn’t have gone and married 
some one within three weeks of the wed- 
ding-day? It was a comfort that there 
was no lady visible. Or accidentally 
made an end of some one ? “I looked 
at the paper — yes, certainly,’’ said the 
squire, trembling with anxiety. 

“Did you see anything about Mr. 
Lisle ?’’ Percival demanded. 

“ Lisle ? Oh yes, of course. What an 
abominable affair ! and what a consum- 


132 


^^FOR percival: 


mate rascal the fellow must be!” He 
pulled up suddenly. It was possible that 
Percival might have something to say in 
defence of his father’s friend ; but the 
young man made no sign. ” Why, as I 
was saying to your aunt Harriet, if this 
smash had come three or four years 
earlier he might have ruined you.” 

” He has.” 

“Eh ?” said the squire blankly. 

‘‘ He has.” 

Percival saw the truth, which he had 
delivered like a violent thrust, slowly 
making its way through the barriers of 
preconceived ideas. He saw the faint 
gleam of triumph dawning in the old 
man’s eyes — of triumph and pleasure 
that could not be altogether disguised. 
For a moment he almost hated his grand- 
father. 

” Ruined you ? he has ruined you ? 
Percival, do you really mean it?” 

Percival bent his head. 

“And you were always so wise in 
money matters I” said the squire with 
a kindly smile of amusement. “ What I 
did he swindle you too ? Told you of 
some very special investment, eh ? How 
much per cent, were you to have,' Per- 
cival ?” 

“ I wasn’t worth so much trouble : he 
had nothing to do. Only we never had 
a settlement when I came of age.” 

“ Never settled matters then ? How 
on earth did that happen?” 

“I should advise you to adopt the 
theory that I was a fool,” said Percival 
bitterly. “It will work very well.” 

The old man was not offended at the 
young fellow’s sullen manner. It would 
have been difficult for Percival to have 
offended him. He was ready to be a 
partisan had it been a case of murder, 
or marriage as in his first wild fancy. 

“Ah, well! what does it matter?” he 
said, rubbing his hands and looking 
eagerly up at the other’s face. “ If that 
old swindler had done no more harm 
to any one than he has done to you, 
one might forgive him.” 

“ He has taken all I had,” was Perci- 
val’s dull reply. 

“Hardly. For he hasn’t taken all / 
have. Come, my boy, there’s nothing 


to look so grave about. What was it ? 
But never mind.” 

Godfrey Thorne’s eyes were glistening 
with gratification. Seven - and - twenty 
years earlier his son Alfred had defied 
him, and defied him successfully. He 
had inflicted the heaviest punishment ' 
in his power — he had lavished his deep- ^ 
est tenderness ;^but Alfred first, and then 
Percival, had held aloof, giving him to 
understand that they did not fear his . 
anger and did not stand in need of his 
kindness. He had felt that he was beat- ' 
en, though he could not bear to acknow- 
ledge it. And now all at once came his ' 
moment of triumph : his boy was there to ; 
seek his help ; he was head of his house 
once more. 

“No matter,” he said. “While I live j 
you will hardly want, I think ; and when * 
I die you will have Brackenhill.” j 

Percival looked him full in the face in 
grave surprise. 

“ Perhaps you will get to like the old 
place,” his grandfather went on. “ I 
think you will if you give it a fair trial. ' 
There have been Thornes here a long 
while. Sissy likes it very much: ask ; 
her. Of course I don’t want to bind 
you in any way, but it is a good house, 
you know. If you gave it a fair trial — ” 

“What are you talking about?” said 
Percival. 

“ I say that when I die you will have 
Brackenhill.” 

“And I say No.” i 

The other’s face fell. "You mustn’t 
cross me in this,” he said. Was it pos- 
sible that even now the cup should be 
dashed from his lips? “What do you 
mean? You are the eldest — you are 
the heir.” i 

“ Horace is your heir,” said Percival. 
“If he had done anything to forfeit his 
position, it would be another thing. But 
he has been brought up from the first in 
the belief that he was to succeed you, \ ; 
and it would be the height of injustice ' 
to make any change now.” ; 

“And how about the injustice to your^ 
father and younself ?” ' 

Percival’s head went up : “ We accept-, 
ed your terms. I see no injustice there.” 

“But, surely, you will not deny my 


^^FOR PERCIVALr 


133 


right to do what I will with my own. 
Do you mean — ” 

“ Of course you can do what you like 
with it,” said the young man. ‘‘If you 
choose to rob Horace, I can’t prevent it. 
But I needn’t be a party to the robbery.” 
Thus the hermit crab showed his claws. 

‘‘And if it were that or nothing? No, 
Percival, no! I was on^ joking.” For 
a sudden fire had flashed in Percival’s 
dark eyes. ‘‘You are judging me has- 
tily too. How do you know Horace has 
not done anything to justify this ?” 

‘‘Simply because he told me he had 
not. He said that you had exacted a 
promise from him, and that he had kept 
it and would keep it.” 

‘‘Did he tell you what that promise 
was ?” 

“No.” 

‘‘Shall I?” 

‘‘As you please.” 

‘‘You must not trust Horace,” said 
Thorne deliberately. 

‘‘ I would stake my life on his truth,” 
was the hot reply. 

‘‘So would I have done — once — and 
lost it. The promise he made in the 
morning was broken before night. But 
he has never owned it.” 

‘‘ There must be some mistake : I can’t 
believe it,” said Percival. 

The old man shook his head : ‘‘ I have 
proof enough, if proof were needed. It 
was last summer, when you were both 
here.” 

‘‘At the agricultural show?” 

‘‘Yes. If you want to be very exact, 
it was the second day of the show. I 
had heard some talk the day before 
about Horace and Miss Adelaide Blake, 
and it didn’t please me — an underhand 
flirtation with one of that man’s daugh- 
ters, and that vulgar gossip, Lydia Raw- 
linson, to tell me of it, giggling all the 
time to think how nicely I had been 
kept in the dark.” 

‘‘You didn’t prefer her word to Hor- 
ace’s, I hope ?” 

‘‘ No. I spoke to Horace, and told him 
that I didn’t care about old Blake and 
his British Flour, and I didn’t choose 
that he should have anything to do with 
Miss Adelaide. And he said there was 


nothing in it at all, and that, though he 
liked her very well, he didn’t care if he 
never saw her again.” Percival’s eyes 
were lighted with eager attention. ‘‘ He 
would make me any promise I liked, but 
he assured me none was needed ; and he 
half laughed as he said it, as if the idea 
were absurd. And he finished by inquir- 
ing whether he might bow if he met her, 
as he would rather not be rude.” 

‘‘And you told him — ” 

‘‘That I didn’t mean he should do 
anything ungentlemanly, of course, but 
anything more than the merest politeness 
would be at his peril, for if I detected 
anything underhand I had done with 
him for ever. And he stood up before 
me as boldly as you are standing now — 
still, with that sort of half smile, as if I 
were the most unreasonable old fellow 
on the face of the earth ever to have 
had such a suspicion — and said, ‘ On my 
honor, sir, Addie Blake is nothing to me, 
and never will be.’ — Very good,’ I said : 
‘ you are warned, and you may go.’ And, 
between nine and ten that very night my 
gentleman was walking with her in Lang- 
ley Wood I” 

‘‘Ah!” said Percival, looking down. 

‘‘ I never told him I knew it,” said the 
squire. ‘‘ What was the good ? For Har- 
riet’s sake too: there’s no knowing what 
may happen, and why should she be tor- 
mented ? But that was an end of every- 
thing. I’m not going to quarrel about 
it. He thinks he has cheated me : let 
him. Perhaps when I die he’ll find out 
he hasn’t: that’s all. Only since that 
time I’ve watched a little. What sort 
of hand does Miss Addie write ?” 

‘‘Big — black,” said Percival. 

‘‘Ah! Mrs. James dropped a letter 
out of one of hers, and looked at me 
to see if I had noticed it. That woman 
would do magnificently for a stage -con- 
spirator. Well, Percival, do you under- 
stand now why I don’t think much of 
Horace ?” 

‘‘ Perfectly.” 

‘‘ You are satisfied ?” 

‘‘The story is most convincing,” said 
the young man. ‘‘ Only there is a flaw 
in it. It happens that on that particular 
evening I had the honor of being Miss 


134 


*^FOR PERCIVALF 


Blake’s escort through Langley Wood.” 
He let the words drop leisurely, as one 
who expected to produce an impression. 
He produced none. 

The squire smiled: “Not that even- 
ing, I think: another perhaps. Miss 
Blake had a taste for moonlight walks, 
I see, but on that particular evening I 
know who was her companion.” 

‘‘Silas Fielding was mistaken,” said 
Percival. 

The old man started: ‘‘Silas Field- 
ing ! Oh, you have heard, then ? Did 
Horace—” 

‘‘Why, I was there. He mistook us 
in the moonlight.” 

‘‘No, no! it is impossible. No one 
could mistake you : you are not a bit 
alike. I don’t know why you want to 
screen Horace.” 

Percival produced a bunch of keys 
from his pocket, and singled out a small 
one. ‘‘Not a bit alike?” he said. ‘‘Think 
of Horace, and look in the glass.” He 
unlocked a desk on a side table, and 
came back with a carte de visite in his 
hand. ‘‘ Whose photograph is that ?” he 
asked. 

Mr. Thorne had half - forgotten Tom 
Felton’s attempt and its result, but he 
did recollect that there was something 
curious about a photograph of one of the 
boys. Apparently, this was Percival, so 
he concluded that a trap was laid for 
him, and that it was really Horace. But 
his perplexity was not diminished. If 
he said ‘‘Horace’s,” it could not be de- 
nied that there was a strong likeness be- 
tween the photograph and the man who 
stood before him. If he said “Yours,” 
he might be told he was mistaken. He 
said, “ I don’t know.” 

“Well,” said Percival, “we must be 
rather alike if you can’t tell which sat 
for that. And we are. The coloring is 
altogether different, but the outline is 
very nearly the same, and a year ago 
the resemblance was much greater. I 
have reasons for remembering that even- 
ing, and I do remember it. I went with 
Miss Blake on an errand of which she 
had no need to be ashamed, but the re- 
verse. Silas Fielding came upon us sud- 
denly in the wood, and was startled. He 


knew Miss Blake by sight, and of course 
he had heard the Fordborough gossip; 
so, seeing her, he expected to see Hor- 
ace. And as I stood there, just the same 
height and general appearance, and very 
likely with that felt hat I wore slouched 
rather over my face, of course in the 
dusk he did see Horace. It is all clear 
enough.” ^ 

“ It was duskl* said the squire. “ That 
was between half-past nine and ten ?” 

“Yes. A good deal nearer ten than 
half-past nine.” 

“And at a quarter-past ten you had 
<<come in from the garden to get a shawl 
for Sissy, and didn’t know where Horace 
was. I noted the time next day when 
Fielding was talking, because I remem- 
bered that Horace was certainly out then. 
I congratulate you on your walking pow- 
ers, Percival.” 

“ I didn’t walk. I got a lift.”. 

“ Ah ! Who gave you a lift ?” 

“A young fellow: I don’t know his 
name.” 

The squire could not repress a smile : 
“ No, no, Percival. This is quixotic ; why 
should you screen Horace ? I tell you I 
know all about it. Silas Fielding was not 
my only informant.” 

“ He was an artist, up at old Collins’s 
farm,” said the young man, pursuing his 
own train of thought. “ But what does it 
signify ? If you have any doubt still, ask 
SisSy. I think she would be sure to re- 
member : at any rate, I could bring back 
the evening to her mind.” 

“Ah yes, and Sissy’s testimony would 
settle it.” 

“Of course,” said Percival. “She could 
say with which of us she spent the even- 
ing in the garden. The whole thing is 
absurd, because I know perfectly well 
how it all happened. But you have mis- 
judged Horace cruelly. Sissy shall bear 
witness and set everything straight.” 

“So be it,” was the quick rejoinder. 
“ You accept Sissy’s testimony ? She has 
given it already. She says that you were 
with her during the whole of that even- 
ing, but that she does not know what be- 
came of Horace for the greater part of 
the time.” 

“Sissy never said that.” 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


135 


" She did. She told me so when I went to 
her directly after Silas Fielding left me.” 

” She didn’t understand what you ask- 
ed her. It isn’t possible.” 

“It isn’t possible that she misunder- 
stood me. I told her that I had heard 
that Horace was out the evening before 
— that I didn’t want any fuss made about 
it, but that I must get to the bottom of 
the matter, for if it were true that he had 
been in Langley Wood with Adelaide 
Blake, he would never be master here ; 
and he knew it.” 

“What did she say then?” 

“She was agitated at first, but she per- 
sisted that you had been in the garden 
all the evening : she could not answer 
for Horace. Percival, you must be mis- 
taken about that particular day. You 
said you would take her word.” 

“Did I ?” said young Thorne. “Then 
I will.” 

“That’s right,” the squire began with 
an air of relief. 

But his grandson went on : “I will 
take her word, but it must be from her 
own lips, if you will bring her, and she 
will repeat it here, to my face. If you 
choose to bring her here — ” 

Godfrey Thorne understood it all, and 
knew that those eager, trembling assur- 
ances that Percival had been in the gar- 
den all the evening would never be re- 
peated to Percival’s face. 

“No, there is no need,” he said after 
a moment’s pause, during which he re- 
flected that Brackenhill must surely come 
to his boy some day. “ There has been 
a mistake, I suppose, and there is, noth- 
ing more to be said. I’ll take your word 
for it. We will say no more about it, 
will we ? We’ll let the matter rest, eh ? 
What do you say?” 

Percival stood with lips compressed, as 
if he had not heard. 

Mr. Thorne would willingly have been 
deceived to the day of his death. He 
was not inclined to be hard on Sissy’s 
treachery, for several reasons. First of 
all, she was Sissy, and, though second to 
Percival, second to him alone. And then 
his mind refused to grasp the fact that all 
his suspicions of Horace were built on the 
statement concerning that evening which 


Percival had j ust swept away. The year’s 
suspicion stood, though its cause was gone. 
Our beliefs are not like our houses: they 
do not necessarily tumble about our ears 
because their foundations fail, or, at any 
rate, they are a great deal longer about 
it. If Horace had not been in the wood 
that particular night, he had been playing 
an underhand game somehow. False- 
hood concerning that one interview would 
really have been nearer justice as a whole 
than that little isolated truth. The old 
man did not put this into so many words, 
but he felt it. And Sissy had been work- 
ing with him — working for Percival, work- 
ing in the good cause. One does not 
desert one’s accomplices. And, finally, 
it was a girl’s falsehood, and the old 
squire was disposed to be lenient to wo- 
men in many ways. He had no doubt 
as to their inferiority, and judged them 
by a different standard. For instance, 
men told lies, women told — fibs. If a 
man told a lie, well, you knew what to 
think of him. But, if a woman told a 
fib, you shrugged your shoulders, laughed 
perhaps, especially if she had got the bet- 
ter of some one you disliked — scolded 
her perhaps, but thought very little more 
of it. It might be that he felt that a 
woman had a truthfulness of her own 
which her white lies did not affect. Wo- 
men are often referred to that indirect 
influence which they are supposed to ex- 
ercise over things in general, and which 
they are assured is a sufficient right. 
Perhaps it was only just and logical in 
Godfrey Thorne, holding this idea, to 
wink at their attaining the indirect in- 
fluence by slightly indirect means. 

But how about his grandson, who held 
that women should maintain a pure and 
tender ideal to which men, amid the 
rough scramble of their daily life, might 
turn for gentle thoughts and sweet rev- 
erence, patient endurance and uncon- 
querable truth ? The squire was not 
quick to decipher such a creed, but 
some outline of it was written very 
plainly on Percival’s face in the fea- 
tures sternly set as if they were cast in 
bronze, and the eyes filled with surprise 
and indignation. 

“We seem all to have been making 


136 


*^FOR PERCIVALF 


mistakes, don’t we ?” said Godfrey 
Thorne. "Silas Fielding and Sissy and 
I ; and you with old Lisle, eh ? Suppose 
we let bygones be bygones, and start fresh 
and think no more of them ?’’ 

"We will talk of something else this 
moment, if you like," said Percival, "with 
all my heart." 

"And you won’t be hard on Sissy?" 
the old man persisted. " Percival, don’t 
look so stern : you will terrify the poor 
child. I must have your word: you will 
be gentle with her?" 

"I hope I shall not be unjustly hard 
on Sissy or any one.” 

" Remember how delicate and easily 
frightened she is. Percival, don’t be too 
angry about a mistake. We all — " 

"I think,” young Thorne interrupted 
him, "that the less you and I say about 
this mistake of Sissy’s the better." 

But the squire, who felt that he had 
unconsciously betrayed her, could not 
control his anxiety. "Remember," he 
said, " it was for you." 

There was a shadow on the young 
man’s face : " I do remember. But don’t 
let us talk of this. Things are easily 
said, but no power on earth can unsay 
them." And with a quick movement 
of his hand, as if enforcing the silence 
for which he asked, he turned and went 
to the window. 

He stood looking out on the terrace, 
trying to think, and failing signally. He 
was conscious only of a vague feeling 
of anger and helplessness, as if the earth 
were cracking and failing under his feet. 
He dared not speak, lest some one of the 
impulses which contended within him 
should get the upper hand and pledge 
him to something definite. He had gone 
on his way so proudly and independent- 
ly, as he thought, and all the while he 
had been a mere puppet in others’ hands. 
Sissy had been scheming to enrich him, 
and Mr. Lisle had smilingly robbed him. 
But the fraud which seemed so all-im- 
portant that morning as he journeyed to 
Brackenhill was dwarfed by the treachery 
nearer home. 

"Percival, I’ve acted very wrongly to- 
ward you," said the squire from his easy- 
chair. 


Young Thorne turned round with a 
reluctant air. Could it be that some 
fresh revelation awaited him ? 

"Seventy -seven. I may die any day,” 
said the squire. 

"So may I,” said Percival. 

"Ah, but you may live fifty years." 
Percival shrugged his shoulders, and 
hardly seemed enchanted at the pros- 
pect of the half century. "But my time 
must be short, and I have risked your 
future. It seems to me now that I must 
have been mad.” 

" Do you mean you haven’t made a 
will ?" 

"Yes, I made one. I suppose you 
would be all right if I hadn’t. Hard- 
wicke has it. It was five or six years 
ago, when I had never seen you, Perci- 
val. Since then I have been planning 
how to set the old injustice right, and 
putting it off from day to day and year 
to year, because no half measures would 
content me. Now, I have written to 
Hardwicke : he is coming over next 
week, when these people are gone. I 
meant to settle everything before your 
marriage : I ought not to have put it off 
an hour. Seventy-seven : it is madness ! 
You must not think I did not care about 
you, but I wanted to be just to Horace. 
He had claims, and I hesitated about 
leaving Brackenhill away from him with- 
out a cause. And of late, when I thought 
he had forfeited them, he was so ill : it 
seemed — But what’s the good of talk- 
ing ? There’s no excuse possible for 
putting things off at seventy-seven." 

"I had no right to expect anything, 
sir.” 

" No, don’t say that : it cuts me to the 
heart. After all, I could make it safe for 
you at five minutes’ warning." 

"It must be a short will,” smiled the 
other. 

The squire got up. "Come and see,” 
he said. 

Percival followed him to his library, 
and stood by while he found his keys 
and laid a document out on the table. 
The young man stooped and read. Hor- 
ace had a mere pittance, Mrs. Middleton 
a life-interest in a sufficient sum. Sissy 
a part of the family jewels : one or two 


^^FOR PERCIVALR 


137 


trifling legacies were left to old friends. 
He lifted his head when he came to the 
end : it needed but three signatures to 
make him the future owner of Bracken- 
hill — less than five minutes, as his grand- 
father had said. 

“Mitchell of Stoneham made that af- 
ter the Langley Wood affair,” said the 
squire. “One day, when I was out of 
tem'per with Hardwicke, I went and gave 
the directions. But I cooled down, and 
then I didn’t like the idea of righting 
you in an underhand way, as if I were 
ashamed of it, and I vowed that old 
Hardwicke should make the will, as he 
had made the others. It was natural 
Hardwicke should stand up for Hor- 
ace,” said the old man apologetically : 
“he has known him all his life. So I 
told Mitchell to let me have it and I’d 
think it over.” 

“I am glad,” said Percival. 

“ But now I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” 
Godfrey Thorne went on. “ If you’ll 
ring the bell I’ll sign this, and Duncan 
and one of the men shall witness it. 
Then I shall feel happy about to-day, 
and to-morrow I’ll go over to Hard- 
wicke.” 

“Go to Hardwicke to-morrow by all 
means, but you mustn’t sign this : there’s 
, no need. I think” — he smiled — “we 
I may wait one day more.” 

“ No, don’t let us have any more wait- 
ing.” The eager squire had the pen in 
his hand. 

But “No,” said Percival. “What are 
you afraid of, sir? Of some accident 
between this and to-morrow ? Well, if 
! there were one, God forbid that you 
should leave this will behind you! How 
could Horace accept his rights as a gift 
from me ? What could I say for myself 
if they taxed me with sneaking down 
here while they are away to induce you 
• to sign a will which we both knew was 
a cruel injustice ? After what has been 
said between us to-day I should deserve 
to be scouted. I would sooner break 
stones on the road than take a penny 
left me by that will.” 

“Perhaps you are right,” said the 
squire ; and he slipped the blotting- 
paper with careful carelessness over the 


offending document. Percival saw and 
smiled. “But, after all,” said the old 
man, “what am I to do ? What am I 
to say to Hardwicke?” 

“ Isn’t that for you to decide ? Only 
be just to Horace.” 

“ But for yourself : say what you would 
like. What would you take without all 
these scruples ? Ah, you have a wish ! 
I see it in your eyes. What is it?” 

(It was the true sultan fashion: Ask, 
and I will give it thee, even unto the 
half of my kingdom.) 

“Well, I have a fancy,” Percival own- 
ed. “But perhaps you only mean an 
income or a lump sum. You would not 
like to divide the property, even if it 
were but a small part ? The Thornes 
never have, I suppose.” 

Godfrey Thorne, who would have scoff- 
ed at the mere idea of such a thing ten 
years earlier, caught at it now : “ Haven’t 
they ? Perhaps not. So much the bet- 
ter. I’ll be the one to begin.” 

“Then,” said Percival, “give me Prior’s 
Hurst.” 

It was a small place — half farm, half 
manor-house — about fifteen miles away, 
on the edge of the little wood from which 
it took its name. “Give me Prior’s Hurst 
and a moderate income — nothing that 
will burden the estate — and I shall be 
content.” 

“It is an out-of-the-way place,” said 
his grandfather. 

“ How long have the Thornes had it ?” 

“Almost ever since the Reformation. 
We bought of the man who got it then.” 

“So I thought. And Brackenhill ?” 

“ Oh, not till much later.” 

“Exactly,” said Percival. “There were 
Thornes at Prior’s Hurst before there were 
Thornes at Brackenhill. Why shouldn’t 
there be Thornes at Prior’s Hurst again ? 
Since I am the elder, give me that.” 

“And I will,” said the squire, rubbing 
his hands and looking up with a proud 
air of possession at his tall grandson. 
The solution of the problem pleased 
him.. He was glad to do for his favor- 
ite what no Thorne had ever done, but 
there was something of unreality about 
the transaction : for a little while and 
the whole would surely be Percival’s, 


138 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


The young man did not feel this so 
strongly. Hammond’s chance remark, 
“ Probably you think him in greater dan- 
ger than he really is,” had driven him 
to the opposite extreme. James Thorne 
had gone abroad for his health, had come 
home, had married, had lived some time : 
why not Horace ? He would be careful : 
he could have everything that money 
could buy. He would never be strong, 
but ” God grant he may live many years !” 
said the next heir. Percival’s renuncia- 
tion of Brackenhill that day was real. 

‘‘ I think I’ll go and have a look at the 
garden,” he said. “But, first, I have a 
favor to ask.” 

“Ask it,” said the squire. 

” Will you let me burn that unsigned 
will ?” 

” Why ? It does no harm.” 

“ Suppose it gets mislaid among your 
papers, and Horace should find it, how 
uselessly it would pain him!” 

‘‘That’s true. Well, I’ll look it up : I 
don’t see it just this minute. I’ll burn 
it to-day or to-morrow, you may trust 
me.” 

‘‘I don’t suppose you do see it,” said 
Percival, ‘‘as it is under the blotting- 
paper, which is under your elbow. Let 
me burn it now : it can be no good. 
Signed, I could not take what it gives 
me; and unsigned — ” 

‘‘Take it, then,” said Thorne, shrug- 
ging his shoulders. ‘‘You’ll lead me a 
life if you are always as obstinate as to- 
day.” 

Percival swept away the summer finery 
of the grate and laid the paper down. 
His grandfather watched him in silence, 
pushing out his lower lip, as he found a 
match and knelt on the rug to light it. 
There was a quick rush of flame as it 
touched Mr. Mitchell’s work, and the 
leaves which might have meant so much 
curled and shrivelled into useless tinder. 
The wavering firelight shone strangely 
for a moment on the young man’s face 
in the golden afternoon. There was 
something awful and irrevocable about 
the deed, now that it was done. What 
was it that had suddenly flared into noth- 
ingness with that hot breath on his cheek ? 
He got up with a little flush on his face. 


and his eyes and lips were grave as if 
he had been offering a sacrifice. 

His grandfather smiled: ‘‘So much 
for a quixotic piece of folly.” 

‘‘Folly? I don’t see it,” said Percival. 
There was a crisp rustling in the ashes at 
his feet. 

‘‘But I do. And I ought to know 
what folly is at seventy - seven : I’ve 
seen enough. Well, you are a good 
fellow, and your folly is better than 
most folks’ wisdom.” 

The last spark died in that little black 
heap. Percival, who had been gazing at it, 
looked up. ‘‘ I didn’t know you were an 
admirer of folly,” he said. ‘‘I often am.” 

‘‘Very good! Only if you are going 
out, don’t carry your folly so far as to 
forget your dinner. Duncan said you 
were not going to stop.” 

‘‘No. I shall go back to town to- 
night.” 

‘‘I ordered dinner at half-past five: 
that will give you time. And now I am 
going to write to Hardwicke; so good- 
bye for the present, Mr. Thorne of Prior’s 
Hurst.” Percival had his hand on the 
door when the old man called anxious- 
ly after him, ‘‘I don’t know when Sissy 
comes back, but if you meet her you 
will remember — ” 

Percival interrupted him: ‘‘I cannot 
forget.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

SISSY ENTERS INTO KING AGAG’S FEELINGS. 

Percival passed out into the garden, 
thankful to be alone. He crossed the 
terrace and went down the stone steps — 
the terrace reminded him too forcibly of 
Sissy — and, plunging into the shrubbery, 
walked to and fro with his head bent 
and his hands behind his back. Grad- 
ually, and without conscious thought, 
there came into his soul, not clearness, 
but a better understanding of his per- 
plexity. 

He hated scenes, recriminations, quar- 
rels. His indolence made him gentle in 
his manners as a rule. Having always 
been strong and well, he had nothing of 
that irritability which is more bad health 


FOR percival: 


than bad temper. Consequently, he won- 
dered that he should ever be warned to 
be lenient in his dealings with any one, 
and imagined himself very tolerant and 
merciful indeed. He had no idea how 
stern he could look, nor how obvious it 
often was that he chose to yield. His 
grandfather’s entreaty that he would be 
merciful to Sissy had awakened in his 
mind the remembrance of Aunt Harriet’s 
exclamation when she heard of his en- 
gagement: "You won’t be hard on her, 
will you?’’ He had resented that as he 
had resented the pleading of this after- 
noon. But as he walked under the fresh- 
ness of the green boughs he began to 
understand it, for it seemed to him that 
he was hard. He could say much for 
Sissy in justification and extenuation; he 
could have pleaded her cause with abun- 
dance of words ; he fancied he could 
I have touched others, and yet he could 
not touch himself. It was like digging 
I through a shallow soil and striking a 
I layer of adamant. Let him say what 
f he would, it always ended in an eternal 
protest : it was a lie, and therefore to be 
utterly abhorred. 

There were many things he could have 
pardoned, and his pardon would have 
been calmly accorded and complete. A 
j wrong done to himself, for instance. But 
[ how was any man to pardon a wrong 
done to truth ? Would he not be in some 
I sort a sharer in the falsehood which he 
[ affected to forgive ? 

I He hoped he was not unjust to Sissy. 
! He would have believed she might be 
j weak, and he counted it his right to guard 
1 and care for her, but he had never doubt- 
ed her utter rectitude. And there was 
something monstrous to him in the idea 
that she should have deliberately wronged 
Horace — Horace her boy playfellow and 
protector — Horace who had printed little 
letters to her before she could read ordi- 
nary writing — Horace who had had her 
childish love and baby kisses years be- 
fore he, Percival, ever set foot in Brack- 
enhill. And had that been all ? But she 
had been willing to share the spoil. He 
could not be unjust enough to imagine 
for a moment that Sissy had calculated 
on her own advantage in this, but such 


139 

advantage should have been unendura- 
ble to her. 

No, he could not forgive. And yet — 
Poor Sissy ! 

It would appear that Balak, the son of 
Zippor, had great faith in a change of 
place when he sought to transform a 
blessing into a curse. Percival did not 
think much of the biblical precedent, 
and did not desire the same result, but 
he tried the experiment. He glanced at 
his watch, found that he had half an hour 
to spare, and went to that lonely garden- 
walk where six months before he had 
asked Sissy to be his wife. Even to that 
melancholy corner the glory of summer 
had come, had flooded it and filled it 
with sunlight and verdure and perfume. 
The very moss on the pathway, which 
had been a blackish crust, shone now 
like greenest velvet touched with gold. 
The blossom’s loveliness was gone, but 
the green of the leaf was delicately fresh. 
The birds were singing on the boughs, 
and there lingered in the cool shadows 
a few late flowers of narcissus, solitary 
on their stalk and shining like sweet 
white stars in the dusky gloom. 

Alone he stood where they had stood 
together, and it is not to be denied that 
the locality had a certain effect. She 
rose up more clearly before him in her 
delicate and gracious loveliness — little 
Sissy who had stood there with wistful 
eyes uplifted to his face. He seemed to 
feel her soft hands on his arm or about 
his neck, and a thrill ran through him 
'at the fancy as a thrill had run through 
him at the veritable touch. But even as 
he softened his lip. curled in sorrowful 
disgust at his own weakness. Was he 
to yield something of his truth to the 
mere charm of Sissy’s presence ? 

After all, what was the use of his de- 
liberations ? Their two lives were to be 
spent together, for if the falsehood re- 
pelled it also bound him, since it was for 
him it was uttered. He would not profit 
by it, but he could not punish it. He 
had resigned his wider visions for a 
sweet home-life with Sissy, and now the 
delicate bloom had been brushed off his 
love, and he must resign that in its turn 
for something lower. He would speak 


140 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


to her, since he could not pass it over in 
silence, but he would speak gravely and 
gently and with perfect self-restraint. 
And perhaps in years to come at Prior’s 
Hurst truthfulness and trust might spring 
up and grow anew between them. It 
could not be as if wrong-doing had 
never been, but a new faith might arise 
on the ruins of the old. 

He would be gentle. The hardness 
that was in him came out in the stern- 
ly-accented determination of this resolve. 
Nothing should induce him to bandy re- 
proaches with the girl who had fallen 
from truth in her desire to serve him. 
By his own deed he had made her his. 
He would not pass over what she had 
done : he would not deny his own ideal, 
far ofif and perfect as a star. But no 
words of hers should wring an angry 
word from him : he swore it to the blue 
sky as he stood on the very spot of 
ground where he had taken her to his 
heart. “You won’t be hard on her?’’ 
No, he would not be hard. 

But Percival did not consider that 
there are two kinds of anger which are 
terrible. People may be out of temper, 
sullen or stammering, with swollen veins 
— unreasoning, unjust. These one may 
fear while the fit lasts, or one may feel 
pity or disgust, but they are the lower 
in our eyes for their rage. But when a 
man neither masters nor is mastered by 
his passion, when he is his indignation, 
a righteous wrath incarnate, neither nar- 
row nor human, a burning fire for which 
his whole nature is but fuel — that fury 
of the whirlwind which men have made 
their type of spirit— then he is terrible 
and great. Or, again, when a man stands 
before you erect and self-restrained, with 
anger in his eyes and resolution in the lines 
of his quiet mouth, measuring his words, 
ruling his wrath, smiling if need be, and 
if need be listening (which is more), he 
too is terrible. Who knows the depth 
of his indignation ? Who can say how 
long it may last ? For aught we can 
tell there may be an eternity of anger 
behind his calm face. It was to be feared 
that Sissy might hardly be reassured by 
Percival’s gentleness. 

He went indoors and sat opposite his 


grandfather, who watched him as he ate 
and drank with a happy air of proprietor- 
ship. Percival thrust all his troubles into 
the background, and was willing to en- 
joy himself. Since his life was after a 
fashion stunted and spoiled, it was well 
that the cookery was good and the wine 
chosen with especial reference to his 
taste. The squire, too, was discoursing 
pleasantly enough of Prior’s Hurst, and 
what might be done to improve the house 
with pictures and old china. “You ought 
to have the old family portraits,’’ said 
Godfrey Thorne : “ as the head of the 
house it would be only right.’’ Percival 
smiled, neither assenting nor refusing, 
but a little perplexed. It did seem to 
him right that he should have them. 
Surely such a legacy would prove to all 
the neighborhood that his father had 
done nothing amiss when in his old 
quarrel with the squire he held to his 
word and his heart and Sarah Percival. 
But at the same time it pained him to 
think that he should rob Brackenhill. 

“ Listen !’’ said his grandfather abrupt- 
ly : “ don’t you hear wheels ?’’ 

Percival nodded, emptied his glass and 
went to the window : “ I can see them : 
they will be here directly.’’ 

“Just in time for a glass of wine after 
their drive,’’ said Mr. Thorne. 

The young man looked at his watch. 
“I must be ofif very soon,’’ he said : “it’s 
the last train, and I must not miss it. 
Send some wine for Sissy into the draw- 
ing-room : I want a little talk with her.’’ 

His grandfather hesitated, looking up 
at him. “You are not going to be — ’’ 
he began, and stopped. 

Percival completed the sentence with 
perfect calmness : “ Hard on Sissy ? Cer- 
tainly not.’’ 

“Go into the drawing-room,’’ said the 
squire with alacrity. “ How surprised she 
will be ! I will send her to you.’’ 

There was no time for consideration, 
and the matter was not worth arguing. 
Percival went into the drawing-room, 
crossing the hall as the wheels were 
heard crushing the gravel just outside. 
He opened the first book that came to 
hand and read a line or two. It was 
impossible in those brief moments to 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


go over his decision again, so he put it 
aside as a thing irrevocable, and leant 
over the page and read — 

And she forgot the stars, the moon and sun. 

And she forgot the blue above the trees. 

And she forgot the dells where waters run. 

And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze : 

She had no knowledge when the day was done. 
And the new morn she saw not — 

The door opened, and he lifted himself 
with a studiously quiet face. But it was 
George with his tray, a long -necked de- 
canter on it and some slender -stemmed 
glasses. Percival dropped on his elbow 
again, with a half smile at his own dis- 
comfiture, and made another attempt at 
reading. But George had hardly found 
a clear space for his burden, and Perci- 
val had only managed 

I Oh leave the palm to wither by itself : 

Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour ! 

, when Sissy appeared in the doorway 

I with a questioning face. It brightened 
into sudden gladness, and she flew half 
across the room like a butterfly. Her 
hand was outstretched, but she uttered 
no word because of George, who stood 
aside to let her pass as he went out. 
Then she lagged: then she stood still, 
a few paces from Percival, looking up 
into his eyes. 

“Percival, you know?” she said. 

“Ah, Sissy! and you know," he an- 
swered with a gentle emphasis. 

Her hand had dropped by her side. 
Had she held it out to him he would 
have taken it, but. she was afraid. He 
turned to the table and filled a glass of 
wine, which she accepted, because in 
taking it her fingers might brush his. 
The touch gave her courage. “Are you 
angry?” she asked, putting the untasted 
wine on the table by her side. 

He shook his head : “ No.” 

“Then you are worse than angry. 
What is it ? I was always afraid,” she 
said desperately. “And yet, O Percival I 
it was for you 1” 

“Ah, that’s the worst of it,” he an- 
swered. “A lie! and for me! And 
Horace ?” • 

“ Don’t !” She had lifted her hands, 
and let them fall again. “ I don’t want 
to think about Horace; I don’t like to 
look at him ; I don’t want him to touch 


141 

me; I can’t bear it when he smiles at 
me. He doesn’t smile at me so often 
now, and somehow I can’t bear that 
either. But he has no right to every- 
thing: you have the right, you are the 
heir. When I couldn’t go to sleep at 
night for thinking, I used to say to my- 
self, It is all to do justice.” 

“Justice? My God!” said Percival ; 
and there was a pause. “What made 
you think of it first?” he said. “How 
came you to tell my grandfather it was 
Horace who was away that evening? 
He says you knew it was important. 
But perhaps you didn’t understand?” 
He offered her this loophole of escape. 
“ Is it possible ?” he questioned with lips 
and eyes.* Had she taken advantage of 
it he would have had a moment of rap- 
ture and a lifetime of doubt. 

“Oh, I understood,” said Sissy, look- 
ing down. “But you didn’t want him 
to know where you had been, did you ? 
You said not. And I thought I had only 
to say ‘ Horace,’ and it would be all right. 
How was I to know it would be so bad 
afterward ?” 

“So bad afterward?” 

“Yes. I was always afraid to open 
my lips, for fear it should come out. I 
locked my door every night, lest I should 
talk in my sleep and Aunt Harriet should 
come in. I was afraid of her; and afraid 
of Uncle Thorne, lest he should scold 
me; and afraid of Horace when he came 
back ill, lest he should say a kind word 
to me; and afraid of Godfrey Hammond; 
and of you.” 

“Why of me ?” 

“ Lest you should be angry.” 

“I am not angry,” said Percival. “At 
least, I think not. I am sorry and I am 
startled. I thought we two were one, 
and that you loved me ; and all the time 
you never understood me, I suppose, 
and I never understood you. You want- 
ed to help me — with a lie. It is strange. 
And only three weeks from being man 
and wife !” he added in a half soliloquy. 
“ Did you think I should never find out 
anything about it, Sisiy ?” 

“ I hoped it might be a long time, a 
very long time, first. And then, if I 
were not braver and stronger, as I hoped 


142 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


I might be — then — one day — if I were 
very tired — I thought — perhaps — ” 

“My God !” said Percival again, as if 
he recoiled from a dimly -seen abyss. 
“When it might be too late to make 
any amends, or when I mightn’t have 
the strength to do it — might acquiesce 
in the lie, and live in it!” 

“You shouldn’t be angry with me,” 
Sissy exclaimed suddenly. “ For it’s 
worse to murder people than to say 
what isn’t true — now, isn’t it? And 
you say that Charlotte Corday was no- 
ble, and Jael, and — ’’ 

“ What ! you wanted to be a heroine ? 
and for me ?’’ said Percival. “ You might 
have spared yourself the trouble, Sissy : I 
don’t feel the least like a hero. Charlotte 
Corday would not have thought much of 
me, I fancy. Why are those women al- 
ways in your head ? I never said Char- 
lotte Corday was my ideal. Charlotte 
Corday — Oh, my poor child ! you don’t 
understand. She earned the guillotine, 
and we were to earn — Brackenhill.’’ 

“ It wasn’t for Brackenhill,’’ said Sissy. 
“No, it was for me: I know it. But 
Horace — Ah, well ! it is no use think- 
ing of it now. He will have his rights, 
thank God ! It is not too late. And I 
shall have a home for you — not so grand 
as this, but you will not mind that. And 
we must try what we can do to under- 
stand each other better in our new life, 
dear. Only always be true. Sissy — be 
true for my sake. No, I won’t say that, 
for truth isn’t really truth for anything 
but its own sake. But you will remem- 
ber that there is no chance of happiness 
for us unless we are both true. See what 
pain this gives us. And, Sissy, I have 
been deceived right and left. If I could 
only feel that I might trust you — I am 
not asking for a promise, but you will 
think of it perhaps — and that you would 
trust me in all our lives to come !’’ 

“ Don’t talk about the time to come,’’ 
said Sissy : “ what is the use ? Nor about 
the time past : it has been very terrible, 
but now it is all over.’’ 

To’ Percival it'thad only just begun. 
“All over.?’’ he repeated, and looked at 
her in stern surprise. 

“Yes,’’ said Sissy. “Oh, there may 


be worse — I don’t know — but there can’t 
be that any more. I shall never go 
about again thinking, ‘ If any one finds 
out ! If Percival is angry !’ and feeling 
cold and burning all at once. Oh, I am 
tired ! I wonder if I shall sleep now ?’’ 

She looked up at him. He stood, 
statue-like, with his eyes upon her. “ It 
is worse,’’ she went on ; “ and yet it is 
better, for it is done. I’m like that 
man in the Bible — what was his name ? 
Agag. You know what he said ?’’ 

“ ‘ Surely the bitterness of death is past.’ 
Was that what you meant ?’’ 

“Yes, that is just it. It is all over, and 
something else is over too.’’ 

“What is that ?’’ 

“All between you and me — for ever.’’ 

Percival stepped back in blank aston- 
ishment. Her words startled him as if a 
sudden flash of lightning had come out 
of a pink-and-white bindweed blossom. 
“ Sissy ! You do not mean that ?’’ 

“ I do ! I do ! It must be so. Don’t 
be angry with me, Percival : I can’t help 
it. I know I promised, but you will set 
me free ?’’ 

He was amazed and bewildered, but 
as he stood, with his brows drawn down 
and his dark eyes questioning her, he 
looked the tragic hero to the life. It 
might have been a picture or a play, with 
that quaint old room for the scene, and 
in the foreground the lady slight, deli- 
cate and pleading, the cavalier stern and 
statuesque. She had her hands upon his 
sleeve — hands with sparkling rings, and 
lace falling softly about the white arms. 

“ Set you free ? You don’t suppose I 
would keep you to your word if your 
heart didn’t go with it? Not if it cost 
me — Sissy, tell me, was I harsh to 
you ?’’ 

“ No ! A thousand times no ! Per- 
haps if you had been — But you do not 
understand; and if I don’t understand 
you, Percival, it would be terrible. Don’t 
you see that it would be terrible — that it 
can’t be ?’’ 

“ Life is long,* isn’t it ?’’ said young 
Thorne. “We might learn.’’ 

“ No,’’ said Sissy, “ I am afraid : I dare 
not try. Oh, Percival, I’m not fit for you ! 
I was never sure till now, though I was 


^'FOR PERCIVALF 



afraid, but now I am sure. Don’t per- 
suade me : I should go with you, and my 
heart would break. If we were alone to- 
gether always, I think I should die.” 

“Sissy!” deeply wounded. 


“Oh, you would be kind I I know it. 
But while you spoke so gently just now 
I could see in your eyes — ” 

“Yes?” Percival was guarding the 
expression of his face. 


144 


*‘FOR PERCIVALF 


“ That you were angry and pained and 
disgusted all the time.” 

‘‘Not disgusted, Sissy.” 

‘‘Well, then, you looked as if you were 
far above it all, though you wouldn’t say 
one hard word, because I didn’t under- 
stand, and you meant to be good to me. 
No, 1 don’t understand now, for somehow 
I feel as if I had been truest of all just 
then.” 

The little clock on the chimney-piece 
struck seven, and startled Percival, re- 
minding him that his time was very 
short. 

‘‘Then, Sissy” — he stepped forward as 
he spoke — ‘‘is itthatyou do not love me ?” 

‘‘You are too good for me,” she fal- 
tered. ‘‘ I don’t understand you : you 
said it yourself. Oh, Percival, don’t be 
angry with me : we shouldn’t be happy. 
Let me go.” There was a frightened 
earnestness in her voice. 

Not love him ? She loved him as much 
as ever — more, if possible. He was al- 
ways perfection in her eyes, — a prince — 
a hero — an archangel. But it must be 
allowed that to spend a lifetime with a 
grieved and indignant archangel would 
not be a reassuring prospect. Sissy’s 
heart died within her at the intolerable 
thought. She had groped in the dark 
after the ideal she had fancied was his, 
and conformed to it, and had made her- 
self the thing he hated. Not love him ? 
Until that momfent it seemed to her that 
she had never fully understood her love 
for him, but with love rose fear, like an 
irresistible torrent, and swept her from 
his side. There was nothing good in 
the whole world except the companion- 
ship which would be more unendurable 
than all. 

‘‘And is this to be the end?” said Per- 
cival at last. 

It was an end of which he had never 
dreamed. He had been as confident of 
her clinging tenderness as of his own 
protecting devotion. Nay, more so, 
for he had feared he could not give 
his heart, true though it was, so utterly 
and unreservedly as Sissy gave hers. 
He might chafe and fret at the perplex- 
ities of his life, but he had never for a 
moment thought that the bond between 


them could be severed. It was a No- 
vember night when he read her love for 
him in her frightened eyes and stooped 
to kiss her lips. And now they had 
reached the sweet May month, which 
blossomed with the last graces and ten- 
derness of courtship ere June should 
come with its riper and warmer beauty, 
and their wedding-day for its crown. 
And through the gliding weeks their 
two lives had been growing together, 
with no thought of such an hour as this. 
Percival forgot his disapprobation, his 
tone of gentle yet studied rebuke : he 
remembered only that he wanted Sissy, 
and that he was on the verge of losing 
her. ‘‘Is this to be the end?” he said. 

‘‘Yes,” said Sissy, hanging her head; 
‘‘only don'thQ angry.” 

‘‘All over in a moment? Sissy, I can’t 
believe it — it isn’t possible ! Are you in 
earnest, really in earnest?” 

“Yes,” said Sissy. 

“ I am to go away — for ever ?” 

“ Ye-es,” said Sissy with a little quiver 
in her voice, but unabated resolution in 
the carriage of her averted head. 

There was again a moment’s pause. 
Percival walked slowly to the other end 
of the room, came back and halted ex- 
actly in front of her : “ Sissy, you must 
forgive me if I weary you, but I have 
only a moment. Is this decision of yours 
so absolutely fixed that I can do nothing 
to change it ?” 

“Yes,” said Sissy. 

“ Then of course you are free. And — 
good-bye. Sissy !” 

“Percival,” said the squire, tapping 
lightly on the door — “Percival, that dog- 
cart of yours has just come round. Sorry 
to disturb you, my boy, but — ” 

“Thanks! I’ll come,” said young 
Thorne. He would have given much 
for another ten minutes, but he must go 
at once or he could not lelhve Bracken- 
hill at all that night. “ And I can’t be 
here to-morrow!” he thought. “Hor- 
ace would think I was scheming some- 
thing underhand with the governor’s 
will. Besides, I can’t face them all now 
— that fearful Mrs. James too — and tell 
them — Sissy, are we to part like this ?” 

“No!” She turned to him suddenly. 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


145 


and her great eyes were yearning and 
brimmed with tears in the delicate lit- 
tle blossom of her face. He opened his 
armsfand she sprung to him, kissed him, 
clung to him : her burning blushes were 
hot against his olive cheek,, and the next 
moment she had repulsed him and torn 
herself away. 

“Sissy,” cried Percival, “by Heaven, 
it shall be all unsaid and undone ! Not 
another word of this folly — ” 

“That was good-bye,” she said — 
“good-bye for always, Percival. And 
— and — you didn’t kiss me, you know, 
when I came in, before I said—” 

The squire outside was envying them 
their youth and love and the happy an- 
guish of their brief parting. But with his 
envy he combined a careful study of the 
minute-hand of his watch. It was pro- 
gressing so rapidly as to suggest the idea 
that a Liberal government had somehow 
got into the works. “ Percival, my dear 
boy, if you must go by this train, there 
isn’t a minute to lose.” 

“Go!” said Sissy: “it is much the best. 
I shall tell them, and I shall say it was 
all my doing and all my fault.” And 
she fled by the opposite door. 

“ Sissy !” he called after her, but she 
was gone. For one moment he stood 
irresolute, glancing from door to door, 
and then he dashed out into the hall. 
His haste and the gathering dusk spared 
him any question or scrutiny. He bade 
the old squire a hurried farewell, and ran 
down the steps. 

“Your overcoat is in,” the squire call- 
ed after him as Percival swung himself 
up by the driver’s side, “ and I will see 
that all is made right — to-morrow.” 

“Thank you,” Percival replied, wav- 
ing his hand, and remembering with an 
eflbrt that it was Prior’s Hurst that was 
meant. 

The old man watched the dog -cart 
as it rattled down the avenue, and even 
when it had disappeared he listened to 
the far-off sound of the departing wheels. 
“ I think the boy looked strange,” he said 
to himself. “ It may be only my fancy, 
but I think he did. And he never once 
looked back!” Then he turned away, 
and the footman, who had been dis- 
10 


creetly waiting in the background, came 
forward and closed the big door with a 
heavy sound which went through Sissy 
Langton’s heart. She had stolen into 
the drawing-room again. There was 
the chair he had set for her, there was 
the glass of wine he had poured out for 
her. Sissy could not endure to think that 
George might come in and drink that 
wine : it would be profanation. She 
touched it with her lips, but she was 
sure that she could not swallow it — it 
would choke her. She carried it to the 
window,' and leaning out into the sweet 
stillness of the May twilight, she poured 
it at the root of the white jasmine. As 
it soaked into the earth she fancied for 
a moment that it looked as if she had 
shed her heart’s blood on the terrace, 
where she and Percival had so often 
walked together. Coming back to the 
table, she set the glass down, looked 
round, and saw an open book. Instant- 
ly she recalled Percival’s attitude — how 
he leant on his elbow and read, and lift- 
ed himself to greet her as she came in — 
and she caught up the volume. There 
was a step outside, and she fled with her 
treasure to her own room. There she 
hung over it, as Isabella over her sweet 
basil on that very leaf. She put no mark 
to keep the place, but if any one studies 
Keats from that copy, he will find that 
the book falls open there, and that the 
creamy smoothness of the page is dim- 
med in many places. 

And Percival was being whirled through 
the cool dusk farther and farther away. 
“I will see that all is made right — to- 
morrow,” the squire had said in his in- 
nocence, and the young man’s lips wore 
a bitter little smile. What could to-mor- 
row do for him ? There are some to-days 
which to-morrow cannot heal, unless per- 
haps it is a to-morrow which is very far 
away. 

“We shall do it, sir,” said the driver, 
and his anxious face relaxed into an 
easier expression — “yes, we shall do it 
now for certain. It was a closish shave, 
but the old horse has come along un- 
common well.” 

Thorne started from his reverie and 
put money into his hand. As he slip- 


146 


^^FOR PERCIVAir 


ped it into his pocket the man glanced 
at it and touched his hat. The transac- 
tion pleased him very well. He didn’t 
understand why young gents always 
would cut it so uncommonly close, but 
it was a way they had, and he preferred 
them to ladies who liked to be in time 
and wished to know his fare. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

BROKEN OFF. 

Percival had expected that when he 
journeyed to town that night the Old 
Man of the Sea would be on his shoul- 
ders. But when the time came he never 
thought of the Old Man of the Sea at all. 
His thoughts were of Sissy, and they were 
disjointed, contradictory and powerless. 
How could he tell what to think ? It 
seemed to him that he had never known 
her till that day. At one moment he 
would say to himself that he had taken 
her at her word too hastily. And, in- 
deed, what she had said did not amount 
to much, but for one thing. She had 
implied that she was frightened at the 
idea of becoming his wife, and her eyes 
had told her fear even more plainly than 
her words. Afraid ! but of what ? For 
she had warmly declared her certainty 
that he would be good. Percival felt 
as if he had somehow caught a slender, 
trembling, wild creature which cowered 
at his approach, and was doubly scared 
at every attempt at friendliness. And 
he had fancied that he could shelter and 
guard her ! He was cut to the heart to 
think that Sissy should be afraid of him. 
If she had defended herself, if she had 
reproached him and been angry when 
he had blamed her, it would not have 
pained him as did her terrified entreaties 
to be set free from his love. It was like a 
stab when he recalled her anxious eyes. 
Yet if he could not make her happy — 
and since perhaps they did not under- 
stand each other — might it not be bet- 
ter in days far off ? Percival threw him- 
self back and folded his arms : “ What’s 


the use of thinking ? I must just drift as 
usual.” 

But he could not help thinking. When 
he reached his rooms again he found a 
parcel of books and maps which he had 
ordered that he might plan his wedding- 
tour, so that no fancy of Sissy’s should 
be unfulfilled. Near it lay another par- 
cel from his tailor, and a letter from a 
sailor friend who had just heard of the 
approaching marriage and wrote to con- 
gratulate him. Percival thrust everything 
aside, and sat musing in his arm-chair till 
utter weariness drove him to bed. j 

Just at the same time Aunt Harriet was 
trying to get a little rest. But she was 
burdened with the weight of Sissy’s tid- 
ings that it was all over, that her engage- 
ment was broken off, and that it was all 
her own fault, not Percival’s. She would* 
not say what was wrong: she was so 
tired she could not be scolded then. 
Only it wasn’t Percival. He was good. 
But it could never, never be ; she could 
not bear it; it would break her heart. 
‘‘Thank Goodness!” thought Aunt Har- 
riet, ‘‘ the poor child has sobbed herself 
to sleep, and to-morrow may bring coun-1 
sel. I can’t think what can be amiss. IHj 
not say anything to Godfrey yet. Broken*] 
off? Why, it’s impossible I The peoplef i 
are asked to the breakfast ; and the pres-l 
sents, too ! There must be some horrible J 
mistake. I’ll find out to-morrow; but oh 
dear I oh dear I just when I was so wor- 
ried with the dressmaker and all I And | 
I’m too old to set lovers’ quarrels right : 
they are a generation too far away from ! 
me. I know it is Percival’s doing, some-t i 
how : I never could feel as if I quite un-^ 
derstood him. Oh, if it could but have!) 
been Horace, my own dear boy I If he 
had come home strong and well, and! 
they had liked each other, I should have i 
had nothing left to wish for. Oh, Hor-U 
ace I Horace !” and the old lady floatedi 
to a melancholy dreamland, very much^ 
as Sissy had done, only that her tearsd 
flowed in a tired acquiescence instead! 
of in a passion of despair. ■ 


**FOR PERCIVALr 


147 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

A REVERIE IN ROOKLEIGH CHURCH. 

E R C I V A L 
awoke the next 
morning, gazed 
at the window, 
and perceived 
that a bee was 
trying to find a 
hole in the in- 
visible wall 
which parted it 
from the blue 
vault and liber- 
ty. He smiled 
as he watched 
it: “Poor thing! 
did it expect to 
^ find any flowers here ? I suppose it 
I wants to be free; but if it did get out 
the blue itself would be its prison, only 
so big it wouldn’t know it. Are we ever 
I free, I wonder, or does liberty only mean 
i that we have not yet run our heads against 
our prison-walls ? Poor wretch ! how it 
frets! I must turn it out — directly.” 
(“Directly;” that is, “immediately.” 
Why does this word at the end of a 
sentence always suggest a slight delay 1 
“Directly” in this case meant that Per- 
cival would stretch himself lazily and 
meditate a few moments longer.) 

I fancy Queen Sleep has a multitude 
of attendant sprites, who wait upon us 
during the night. She bids them take 
Hour burdens of weariness and trouble 
?and let us have some rest. We load 
Nhem very heavily, poor little things! — 
so heavily sometimes that they cannot 
support the back - breaking weight, and 
fragments of our every-day anxieties 
slip down and mingle in our dreams. 
But the elves do their best; only now 
and then they are mischievous, and say 
they will at any rate have an exchange 
of burdens, so they toss their queer little 
Iperplexities to us to hold, and we have 
|very fantastic visions indeed. It may 
loe that they get so dull toward morning 


with the burden of our dulness that they 
do not notice when we open our eyes, 
and thus we gain a moment’s respite. 
It happened so that morning, till a little 
elf, who had been released by an earlier 
riser, suddenly burst out laughing, hancfs 
on hips, gauze wings quivering and droll 
head on one side : “ What are you stand- 
ing there for ? Why, that fellow is wide 
awake, and talking about bees and lib- 
erty these five minutes !” 

“ So he is,” said the drowsy sprite ; and 
flinging his load to Percival again, he 
darted off. 

The young man sat up with a sudden- 
ly-troubled face, forgot the bee and re- 
membered everything else. “It isn’t 
possible!” he said. 

Something of Aunt Harriet’s feeling 
awoke within him when he considered 
the matter by the light of day. I do not 
know that he thought of the presents ex- 
actly, but it did seem to him that he and 
Sissy had gone too far to draw back. 
What would everybody say ? Percival 
hated the thought of the gossip with 
which Fordborough would be flooded. 
And what would his grandfather say ? 
With whom would he be angry ? For 
angry he would undoubtedly be. Per- 
cival could take no comfort from the 
thought that he would probably escape 
the old man’s wrath, for he felt that Sis- 
sy must be sheltered at any cost. He 
could not walk off in easy impunity and 
leave her to bear the blame, yet Sissy 
was not dependent on his grandfather, 
and he was : there was the sting. 

His heart was aching too. Even if 
he had Prior’s Hurst, what would it be 
to him without Sissy ? There was a 
doubt, far down in his soul, whether 
she had not touched the truth when she 
said they were not fit for each other and 
should not be happy. Unhappiness was 
possible there, but he was ready to run 
the risk. For was happiness possible 
elsewhere ? It did not seem so to Per- 
cival. He had set his heart on Sissy: 



148 


^*FOR percival:' 


she had given herself to him, and it was 
only three weeks to their wedding-day. 
It was true that he had told her she was 
free, but if she accepted the freedom thus 
granted she was forsworn. How many 
times had she told him that she was his 
for ever ! 

What should he do? He pondered 
many lines of conduct, and at last came 
to the somewhat feeble conclusion that 
if the next morning brought him no 
news from Brackenhill, he would write 
to, or perhaps see, Aunt Harriet, but that 
for that one day he would drift. Per- 
cival had an uneasy, half-satirical con- 
sciousness that his grave meditations 
generally ended in a determination to 
drift — a result which might have been 
attained without any meditation at all. 
He breakfasted, fighting all the time 
against importunate thoughts not to be 
easily banished. He stood by the win- 
dow, beating an impatient tune upon 
the panes. “ By Jove, I can’t stand it, 
and I won’t!” said Percival. “I’ll go 
somewhere for the day.” 

He walked to the nearest station, and 
happened to stand by a respectably- 
dressed artisan who was taking his tick- 
et. ‘‘Third — Rookleigh,” said the man. 

‘‘Where on earth is that?” said Perci- 
val to himself. ‘‘ I’ll go and see.” He 
varied the class. ‘‘ One first — Rook- 
leigh,” he said, and followed the work- 
man to the Rookleigh train. 

It was interesting — at least with an 
effort he could fancy it was interesting 
— to speculate what kind of place his 
destination might be. ‘‘Sounds rural,” 
he reflected. ‘‘Ought to be plenty of 
trees, and rooks in them. Market ? Per- 
haps. Inhabitants — say about eight hun- 
dred and fifty -three: the three has a 
business-like sound about it. Occupa- 
tion ? Agriculture and straw -plaiting. 
Church newly restored, no doubt, and 
the deluded parishioners think that is 
a reason for going to look at it.” 

Rookleigh, when he reached it, proved 
to be a good-sized, sleepy country town, 
which seemed to have trickled down the 
side of a gentle hill and crystallized on 
its way. At the bottom of the slope loi- 
tered the most placid of streams, with 


gardens and orchards on both sides. 
Most of the river-side houses were red, 
solid and respectable. Percival soon de- 
cided that the place was inappropriate- 
ly named, as there was not a rook to be 
seen or heard. Its principal productions 
appeared to be poplars and pigeons. 
The result of his observations was that 
two householders out of three grew pop- 
lars, and three out of four kept pigeons. 
The tall trees quivering and the white 
birds flying against a background of un- 
clouded blue had a quaint, peaceful ef- 
fect. There was much houseleek grow- 
ing on the steep red roofs, and a decrepit 
black dog lay dozing in the middle of 
the principal street. Percival strolled 
about the town and looked at shop-win- 
dows till the time came when he could 
go to the Red Lion for some luncheon. 
They gave him pigeon -pie, at which he 
was not surprised; in fact, he did not 
see how they could give him anything 
else, poplars being uneatable. He made 
his meal last as long as he could, and 
then studied the portraits of two or three 
country squires on their favorite hunters, 
for he had discovered that Rookleigh was 
a place from which it was not easy to es- 
cape. Failing a train at 1.5, which would 
have interfered with the pigeon -pie and 
left him with the afternoon on his hands, 
he could not get away till 6.45. ‘‘A very 
good time too,” he said philosophically. 
‘‘ I shall get back to dinner with an ap- 
petite.” 

The resources of Rookleigh could not 
be said to be exhausted while the church, 
which was a little higher up the hill, re- 
mained unvisited. A small boy under- 
took to fetch the clerk, who kept the key, 
and while he was gone Percival sat on a 
large square tomb and wondered why 
its occupant or occupant’s friends had 
chosen such a memorial. ‘‘There seems 
to be a wish that each person’s death 
should cause a sort of little wart on the j 
earth’s surface,” he reflected. ‘‘Froml 
the Pyramids to those low green hillocks 1 
I suppose it is all the same thing. Luck- j 
ily, we can’t all have what we want, and j 
Time interferes with the plans of those I 
who do, or the face of creation would bej 
speckled with our miserable little grave- 1 


( 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


149 


stones. I’d rather be put away altogether 
when my time comes, and have the ground 
smooth over me ; or if my name must be 
recorded somewhere, it might be on a bit 
of pavement.” 

The clerk appeared, more out of breath 
than seemed proper in such a quiet place 
as Rookleigh. Percival followed him into 
the church, which was spacious and dim 
and had something of faded, worm-eaten 
stateliness about it. The old man made 
a few remarks, but had not the unpleas- 
ant fluency of vergers in much-frequent- 
ed places. The boy who had been Per- 
cival’s messenger amused himself with a 
little stone-throwing in the churchyard, 
and the clerk, after a few glances over 
his shoulder, stole softly through the open 
door to pounce upon the guilty child. 

Percival smiled and went up to the 
chancel. It was wide and not encum- 
bered with pews, and he paused in the 
open space, noticing the effect of a slant- 
ing ray of light. All at once he said to 
himself, ” This is just where I should 
stand if I were going to be married.” 
And in fancy he tried to people the 
empty chancel with the guests who should 
have gathered for his wedding in three 
weeks’ time. It was a dreary pastime in 
a dreary place. And when he would have 
pictured Sissy standing by his side, to be 
bound to him for ever, he could not re- 
call her face and form with anything like 
their wonted clearness. No effort would 
avail. Indeed, after a prolonged en- 
deavor it almost seemed as if he could 
call up nothing but two frightened eyes, 
which gazed at him out of the still atmo- 
sphere of Rookleigh church. 

He shivered, and, hearing the old 
man’s step behind him, broke the si- 
lence with the first question which came 
to his lips : ” Do you have many wed- 
dings here ?” 

“ Not many. Not but what it’s a fine 
church for ’em. Plenty of room, you see, 
sir.” 

Thorne nodded. “ What makes your 
pavement so uneven ?” he asked. 

The other looked down: ‘‘Why, it’s 
old Mr. Shadwell : he’s Just under you, 
sir. It’s his vault. He was rector here 
five-and-fifty years ago. He was a great 


scholar, they say, and had five sons, all 
parsons like himself.” 

‘‘All scholars too? And all buried 
here ? You must mind what you are 
about, or the ghosts of the reverend 
family will be astonished some day by ' 
a wedding - party suddenly descending 
among them,” said Percival as he turn- 
ed away. 

The old man pocketed his fee. ‘‘ We’ll 
be sure and have it mended before you 
come to be married here, sir,” he called 
after his visitor, who passed out into the 
sunny glare. 

Where next ? A boat on that languid 
stream ? Unhappily, people did not row 
on Rookleigh River, or would not let their 
boats if they did. Percival had to con- 
tent himself with a walk along the bank. 

Coming back, he halted, struck with a 
house on the opposite shore. It was a 
large, rather handsome red house, old, 
yet the perfection of neatness and repair 
— pei haps even a little too neat, like a fash- 
ionable middle-aged woman, who is never 
careless. Its garden lay spread, one uni- 
form sunny slope, to the river’s edge, and 
ended, not in possible inequalities of bank, 
but in a neat low wall. Even now, when 
June would soon dawn in its glory on the 
happy world, the house and garden sug- 
gested autumn to Percival, and he stop- 
ped to wonder why. He thought it might 
be partly the long straight path which ran 
down the centre of the slope, and which 
was of old gravel subdued in tint, and 
with a row of espalier apple trees on 
either side. Perhaps, too, many apple 
trees in a garden do suggest autumn as 
soon as their blossom is fallen. There 
is an idea of laying fruit away, of gar- 
nering a serviceable harvest. Espaliers, 
too, are not so much trees as just that 
amount of tree which will give the ne- 
cessary apples for pies and puddings, as 
if one should say to Nature, ‘‘We do not 
like your heedless, unrestrained ways, 
and will see no more of them than we 
can help.” On one side of the house 
was trained a tree, but not for any ripe 
delight of August peaches, though it took 
the sunniest wall. A pear. Percival had 
an unreasoning conviction that the pears 
would be hard — probably requiring to be 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


150 

baked or stewed. Nor was there any 
wealth of climbing roses in the garden, 
but he could see chrysanthemums dotted 
at intervals down the long walk with neat 
precision, and he was sure that before they 
blossomed the place would glow with the 
earlier splendor of dahlias. Also, there 
were too many evergreens. 

Down the central path came an old 
lady in slate-colored silk, carefully look- 
ing to right and left, and apparently re- 
moving an occasional snail or dead twig 
or injured leaf. Her dress glistened in 
the sunlight, and Percival watched her 
a while from between the hazel boughs 
before he became aware that there was 
some one else in the garden. A cross- 
path had its occupant, who came and 
went behind the laurels and aucubas with 
the unfailing regularity of a pendulum. 
The leafy screen was too thick for Per- 
cival to do more than see that some one 
passed on the other side ; but each time, 
as she turned at the end to resume her 
walk, there was a glimpse of a soft gray 
gown, and once — surely once, for a mo- 
ment — of a gray hat and golden hair. 
Again and again and again he caught 
the vanishing fold of her dress, but nev- 
er again that momentary vision. Cer- 
tainly there were too many evergreens. 
Why did she walk there'? Swift though 
it was, the dreary regularity of pace told 
not of inclination, but of duty. Percival 
watched and grew impatient. “ Why 
doesn’t she come into the middle walk 
and help to pick up snails ?” he said to 
himself. “Any one would who saw the 
poor old lady hunting about.” The lat- 
ter, who was vigorous and alert, and not 
so very old either, would not have been 
best pleased could she have heard his 
pity ; and, what was worse, the wearer 
of the gray gown did not share it, for 
she left the old lady to deal with the 
snails single-handed. 

Presently some people came along the 
footpath, and Percival, who did not choose 
to be caught watching, sauntered a little 
way to avoid them, laughing at himself 
for his interest in the mysterious lady as 
he went. “If I could have seen her I 
should not have given her a second 
thought,” he said. He looked at his 


watch, and was surprised to find that it 
was past six. He turned and retraced 
his steps, for he was walking away from 
Rookleigh, and as he went by the old 
red house he looked once more at the i 
garden. Both the ladies had disappear- I' 
ed during his absence. 

“Stupid!” said Percival. “If those j 
people hadn’t driven me away I should - 
have seen her go. Now she will remain 
a mystery for ever.” , 

The mystery did not long retain pos- 
session of his thoughts. As he journey- i 
ed homeward he recollected that at that ' 
hour the evening before he had parted j 
from Sissy. There came a faint glow to I 
his olive cheek as he remembered how 
she sprang to him and clung with her 
arms about his neck, and how he felt 
her tears and kisses on his face. His 
heart kindled at the memory, and then 
grew dull. “ She was very sure of her- 
self, or she had not dared,” he thought. 

It was past nine when he stood at his 
own door, having stopped to get some 
dinner on his way. He could eat in spite 
of all his perplexities. He was met by 
the announcement, “Two telegrams come 
for you, sir.” 

A telegram is not the alarming fact it 
used to be, but to be told of two awaiting 
him quickens the pulses of a man who 
seldom receives one. Thorne felt that 
something urgent had occurred. He 
walked quietly into his room, turned up 
the gas, saw the envelopes on the table, j 
stretched out his hand to the nearer of 
the two, hesitated, took up the other and 
tore it open : ' 

‘ ‘ Godfrey Hammond, Brackenhill, Ford- ] 
borough, to Percival Thorne, Esq. : All is I 
over. You could not have been in time, j 
Will meet first train at Fordborough to- { 
morrow.” j 

He stood like a statue, but his brain ; 
reeled. “My God! She is dead!” he ^ 
said at last. “ I have killed her. And 
she wanted me, and I was not there !” 

If suffering could expiate sin, that mo- 
ment’s agony should have cleansed his 
whole life. He did not think, he did not 
attempt to think, what had happened at j 
i Brackenhill. Sissy was, in his eyes, aa 
I delicate as a butterfly or a flower. A { 

4 

i 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


breath might kill her, and this telegram, 
with its “All is over,” hardly seemed an 
unnatural ending to the passion and ter- 
ror and hopeless renunciation of the night 
before. “All is over,” she had said, and 
had torn herself from his arms. And 
what her sweet lips had uttered the 
hateful paper echoed — "All is over” — 
and lay there like incarnate Fate. 

Percival lacked strength to open the 
other message. What could it tell him 
j that he did not know ? He felt as if the 
I unavailing summons which was impris- 
! oned there would stab him to the heart, 
j Out of that envelope would rush Sissy’s 
j appeal to him, her last cry out of the 
black night of death, and no answer 
would be possible. He walked to and 
I fro, casting troubled glances at it. His 
pleasant familiar room suddenly became 
a hideous torture -chamber, and a black 
I pall had fallen over his life, 
i At last he opened the second message 
with fingers that quivered like aspen- 
leaves. The paper rustled in his hands 
as he unfolded it and read : 

I "Mrs. Middleton, Brackenhill, to Per- 
I cival Thome, Esq.: Your grandfather is 
; dangerously ill. Come at once. Do not 
lose a moment.” 

He flung it down and faced the world, 
a man once more. It was not that he 
! was heartless — that he did not care for 
the old squire who was gone. He felt 
the blow, but this was a grief which came 
out of the shadows into the light of com- 
mon day. It was like waking from a 
death -like swoon to the anguish of a 
wound. A nightmare was transformed 
into a sorrow. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

OF A GOLDEN WEDDING. 

As the 9.15 train slackened speed at 
Fordborough Station, Percival looked 
out and saw Godfrey Hammond stand- 
ing on the platform. It was exactly what 
he had anticipated, and yet it gave him 
a little shock of surprise to see Godfrey 
just as usual, in a light gray suit such as 
he often wore at Brackenhill, trim, neat, 
alert, looking as if he had slept well and 


151 

breakfasted well, and watching the train 
with his glass stuck in his eye. Percival 
did not really expect to see any outward 
signs of grief. It was hardly probable 
that Hammond would appear with his 
clothes rent, lamenting aloud and cast- 
ing dust upon his head, yet his un- 
changed aspect startled the young man. 
Have we not all been startled in the 
same way by the want of sympathy 
between outward things and our in- 
ward joys and sorrows.? If our feelings 
change, do we not straightway want the 
universe made anew to our pattern ? 

Percival sprang out, and suddenly 
came within the range of Hammond’s 
eye-glass. A smile of recognition dawn- 
ed on the other’s face. “Ah, here you 
are !” he said. Perhaps there was a lit- 
tle more firmness in his clasp as he shook 
hands with the young man. "That’s well. 
I was considering what I should do if you 
didn’t come. Only that bag ? The car- 
riage is waiting.” The station-master 
came up, touched his hat and made a 
remark. “Thank you,” said Hammond. 
“As well as can be expected. Very sud- 
den — yes; and very terrible. — Are you 
ready, Percival .?” 

The brougham was outside. “We 
shall be by ourselves,” said Godfrey, 
who generally preferred the dog -cart. 
A minute later they were rolling smooth- 
ly along the road which Percival had 
traversed in such haste so short a time 
before. 

“I was out,” said young Thorne ab- 
ruptly. " I didn’t get your messages till 
between nine and ten last night.” 

“I said you were out,” Hammond re- 
plied. “ It was quite as well. You could 
not possibly have been in time, and could 
not have done any good.” 

“ How — when did it happen ?” 

“Yesterday morning, quite early. In 
fact, it was all over before the first tele- 
gram was sent. But when they awoke 
Mrs. Middleton with the news — in a very 
foolish and inconsiderate manner, I fear 
— she absolutely refused to believe it, and 
they tell me her first cry was, ‘ Send for 
Percival — Godfrey will want Percival !’ 
She wrote the message to you herself, but 
long before the man could have reached 


152 


*^FOR PERCIVALr 


\ 


Fordborough with it she must have known 
it was utterly useless. In fact, after the 
first shock she rallied and regained her 
calmness and good sense in a most sur- 
prising way. She feels it terribly, but 
when I got there she was quite herself.” 

‘‘But how was it.?” said Percival. 
‘‘When I left my grandfather on Wed- 
nesday night he seemed quite well.” 

‘‘Ah, that’s the sad part of it. It was 
an accident.” 

‘‘An accident?” 

‘‘Poison,” said Hammond — ‘‘an over- 
dose of some opiate or other. No : don’t 
look so scared. There was no possibility 
of foul play. It is as clear as daylight.” 

(What Godfrey Hammond said was 
perfectly true. There was no foul play, 
and the death was as mere an accident 
as if Mr. Thorne had killed himself by 
falling down stairs. It was not really 
more terrible that his hand should fal- 
ter than that his foot should slip. But 
there is always something ghastly in the 
idea of poison, and Percival’s heart seem- 
ed to stand still for a moment.) 

‘‘ He was late on Wednesday night,” 
said Hammond. ‘‘He wrote a letter to 
Hardwicke and sent it to the post. Af- 
ter that he sat for a considerable time 
alone in the drawing-room, for Sissy was 
not well, and Mrs. Middleton was with 
her. When he went up stairs Turner 
noticed that he was more inclined to 
talk than usual. Pie said more than 
once that he had had a good deal of 
anxiety and trouble of late, but that now 
he hoped all would be right. Just as he 
was lying down he remarked that he had 
written to Mr. Hardwicke, and should 
drive to Fordborough the next day to 
see him. Turner says that his answer 
was, ‘ Oh indeed, sir, then I suppose Mr. 
Hardwicke is home again?’ and that Mr. 
Thorne sat up with a startled look on his 
face, and said, ‘ Good God ! is Hard- 
wicke out?’ The man was surprised, 
and told him that he had heard that Mr. 
Hardwicke had gone abroad somewhere, 
but he did not know for certain. Mr. 
Thorne lay down, and told him he might 
go, but Turner — who has the next room, 
you know — says he does not believe his 
master slept at all. He could hear him 


tossing uneasily in his bed, till, being 
tired, he dropped off to sleep himself. 
He was awakened after a time by Mr. 
Thorne calling him. ‘ I can’t sleep,’ he 
said, ‘ and I can’t afford to lose my 
night’s rest, for I have something I must 
do to-morrow.’ He told Turner to bring 
his little medicine -chest, and unlocked 
it with the key which hung with two or 
three others on his watch-chain. Turner 
was not surprised, as he occasionally took 
something of the kind, though not very 
often. He waited to carry it away again, 
' but Mr. Thorne looked up with the bot- 
tle in his hand, and said the candle was 
too bright and hurt his eyes, and that he 
could see better with only the lamp which 
burned by his bedside. Turner was go- 
ing to put it out when your grandfather 
added, ‘ And that dressing-room window 
rattles again : go and see if you can stop 
it.’ He thinks he might have been five 
minutes at the window. When he look- 
ed back from the dressing-room door Mr. 
Thorne was lying down, with his face 
turned away from the light. He was 
quite still, and Turner was afraid of dis- 
turbing him with the candle or his foot- 
steps, so he did not go in, but went round 
by the passage to his own room, and soft- 
ly closed the door between the two. When 
he went in at about eight the next morn- 
ing Mr. Thorne lay in precisely the same 
attitude — dead.” 

‘‘How do they know it was — ” Per- 
cival began. 

‘‘Turner saw how much there was in 
the bottle, and drew his own conclusions. 
The idiot need not have rushed to an- 
nounce them to Mrs. Middleton, though. 
Your grandfather had lately been taking 
something for those headaches of his, 
and the man’s theory is that in a fit of 
absence he poured out the same quanti- 
ty of this. I don’t know. I’m sure : I’m 
not in the habit of taking poisons myself, 
and don’t understand anything about 
them. I locked everything up, or the 
whole household would have had their 
fingers in the bottle.” 

‘‘There will be an inquest?” 

‘‘To-morrow. But there is no possible 
doubt as to the result.” Godfrey took his 
chin between his fingers and stroked it 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


153 


[ meditatively as he spoke. “ I shall miss 
I the old squire,” he said after a pause, 
( with a weight of meaning in the simple 
j words. ” But, thank God ! it must have 
: been a painless death.” 

I ” I — suppose so,” was Percival’s reply. 

He was wondering, even while he ac- 
quiesced, whether there had been a mo- 
j ment, the merest lightning-flash of time, 
during which the old man had been con- 
scious of his blunder. If so, there had 
, been a moment of suffering keener than 
death itself. And even if not, where was 
he now ? Did he know that his delay 
had ruined his favorite ? Did he, even 
in a new life, feel a pang of impotent 
anguish at the thought of what might 
have been? “For he cares still,” said 
Percival to himself. And his heart went 
forth in deep tenderness toward the old 
; man. “If you could only know!” he 
! thought. 

“Duncan telegraphed to me on his 
, own account,” Hammond went on, “ and 
; sent the message at the same time as the 
one to you, only his was more accurate. 
I got it about an hour before the train 
left. I always told — I always said that 
old butler was no fool, except about 
wine.” 

“Sissy?” said Percival. 

The other looked grave : “ Sissy is not 
at Brackenhill. She was far from well, 
and we feared it would be too much for 
her — the inquest, and funeral, and all. 
Laura Falconer came over yesterday af- 
ternoon and insisted on taking the poor 
child away. We persuaded her to go, and 
when she found we really thought it was 
best, I think she was not altogether un- 
willing.” 

Percival knew, by his sense of relief, 
that he had dreaded a meeting with 
I Sissy in that horrible house of death. 

I “ Horace ? is he back again ?” 

' “Yes, and Mrs. James too. If there 
I were any conceivable piece of mischief 
i ;hat she could have on hand, I should 
say she was plotting something. They 
have sent off telegrams with mysterious 
secrecy, and they hold solemn councils 
in every corner. But as I can’t see what 
they can be after, I suppose it is only 
Mrs. James Thorne’s agreeable manner.” 


“Most likely,” said Percival. 

“Young Henry Hardwicke came over 
yesterday with the letter. His father has 
gone to see about some French property 
which a client of his wants to sell. He 
was not certain about the distance to the 
place, nor how long he would be there, 
so he only gave Henry his address at a 
Parisian hotel. We have written and 
telegraphed there, and have despatched 
a message to him at his final destination 
as well as the young fellow and I could 
make it out, but I am not at all sure of 
it.” 

“ He has not answered, then ? An 
awkward time for him to be away.” 

“Yes, but he had an appointment with 
the squire for next week — I suppose to 
settle things for you and Sissy. Your 
grandfather says nothing in the note ex- 
cept that he is coming over, and partic- 
ularly wants to see Hardwicke that day, 
and to look at his will.” 

Percival sat for a moment in silent 
thought. This was the will which had 
been made before he ever saw his grand- 
father, and which the old man had been 
so anxious to alter. What was in it ? It 
would not leave him Brackenhill nor Pri- 
or’s Hurst — not so much as an inch of 
land. But was it possible that there would 
be nothing whatever for him ? The squire 
had not said that, and it did not seem 
probable that he would have altogether 
passed over one who had done nothing 
to offend him when he thought so much 
of his family, and the Thornes were so 
few. But Percival was constrained to 
own that it was possible. A couple of 
days earlier he had feared dependence : 
now he feared beggary. 

“This will put off your marriage,” said 
Hammond suddenly. 

“Yes,” said Percival, still absorbed in 
thought. But a moment later he turned 
and looked at Godfrey. “No, it won’t,” 
he said. “ There is no marriage to be put 
off. Look here, Godfrey : the day may 
come that I shall ask you to remember 
when it was I told you this. Sissy and I 
parted for ever before my grandfather’s 
death. Do you understand ? Aunt Har- 
riet can bear witness to that. It was on 
Wednesday night. We thought it was 


154 


*^FOR PERCIVALF 


best. If any one was to blame, it was I. It 
is all over, really and finally. At this pres- 
ent moment Sissy no doubt believes that 
I am the master of Brackenhill. Know- 
ing what she knew, and being well aware 
that my grandfather had no time to change 
anything after his talk with me, she can 
hardly think otherwise. But the Ford- 
borough gossips will say she threw me 
over because I was poor. You must 
contradict that.” 

Hammond looked fixedly at him. 
“Ah !” he said. ‘‘But will you be poor?” 

‘‘ Horace will have Brackenhill.” 

‘‘ Horace hardly thinks so.” 

‘‘ He will. At least unless there is some 
flaw in the will, which is not likely, as 
Hardwicke made it. Even then I should 
not dispute his claim. You had better 
not say anything to him, perhaps, till the 
will is read ; but I know how it must be.” 

‘‘Well,” said Hammond, ‘‘suppose 
Horace does have Brackenhill — and 
perhaps he has the best right: may I 
say so? — ” 

‘‘/ say so.” 

‘‘Your grandfather could still provide 
for you, so that you would not be poor 
in any terrible sense of the word. Per- 
haps you may even be in easier circum- 
stances than Horace, who will have that 
great house to keep up.” 

‘‘Had my grandfather lived another 
day he would have provided for me,” 
Percival replied. ‘‘As it is, the will that 
Hardwicke will produce is an old one, 
made five or six years since, before I 
ever set foot in Brackenhill.” 

Hammond was startled. ‘‘You don’t 
mean it ! You’ll come badly off in that, 
my poor fellow,” he said. ‘‘What! had 
he never altered his will ? It is incred- 
ible — at his age ! What folly, or — ” 

‘‘No,” Percival interrupted. ‘‘Don’t 
say a word against him. Suppose he 
should be able to hear us?” he said, 
with a half smile at the fancy — a smile 
which ended in a sigh. ‘‘ I wish he could : 
I should like to tell him something.” 

They were turning in at the gate. The 
old woman who opened it caught sight 
of Percival, and courtesied reverentially, 
mistaking a meteor for the rising sun. 
The young man answered with an ab- 


sent nod. ‘‘I only tell you this that you 
may stand up for Sissy,” he said as they 
went up the drive. 

‘‘ That I will if needful,” his compan- 
ion replied. ‘‘ But I’m sorry to hear this. 
Perhaps, after all, there may be no op- , 
portunity for any gossip. Are you quite 
sure — ” 

‘‘That it is all over? Yes,” said Per- 
cival. 

Aunt Harriet met him with a face 
which was pathetic by reason of its very 
calmness. Her eyes were swollen and 
tired, and the pretty pink color in her 
cheeks had all retreated into the little 
veins. Her lips quivered suddenly now 
and then, as if a barbed arrow-head had 
been left in her wound. She looked 
doubtfully at Percival for a moment, but 
there was no mistaking the sadness and 
sympathy in his eyes ; and, as if drawn 
by an invincible impulse, she put up her 
face that he might stoop and kiss her. 

‘‘God help you. Aunt Harriet!” he 
said. 

But even as he spoke she drew her 
hands away and turned aside : ‘‘ Don’t 
talk to me just yet, Percival.” 

Her heart was torn with conflicting 
feelings. The young man who stood 
before her, his dark eyes eloquent with 
his desire to comfort her in her sorrow, 
was Godfrey’s Percival, his favorite — 
was dearer to Godfrey than all the world 
beside. She had felt as if her heart were 
breaking as she drew her hands out of 
his soft, lingering clasp, and yet as if it 
were treachery to leave them there. For 
what had he done with his smooth words 
but make his way into her brother’s hean 
and rob Horace of his inheritance ? And 
what had he done with his eloquent eyes 
and clasping hands but win Sissy Lang- 
ton and break her heart ? Sissy had said 
that it was not his fault — that he was 
good; but how could Mrs. Middleton 
believe him guiltless when she knew 
how the poor child had loved him ? 
Sissy would never have been false to 
him : it was not possible. And yet, af- 
ter all, he was Godfrey’s boy, and there 
was nothing now that she could do for 
Godfrey except what she did for Percival. 

She dropped into her arm-chair again 


PERCIVALF 


155 


and hid her face in her hands. When 
she looked up he was still, standing there, 
silenced yet pleading. Presently he knelt 
on one knee before her. “Aunt Harriet,” 
he said, “he was very good to me. I wish 
I could tell him so, but I can’t, so I must 
tell you. I’ve no one now, you see.” 

She laid her trembling hand upon his 
head. He had no one now. That was 
true, but he would have Brackenhill, and 
friends would come in crowds. He had 
health and wealth, and all his life before 
him; and he would prosper and be pop- 
ular, and go on his triumphant way, and 
find a new love and marry her, while her 
poor dying Horace and her broken-heart- 
ed darling passed away like shadows from 
his path. That was the future as she saw 
it in her grief, though it turned another 
face to Percival. 

“ Don’t think me unkind,” she said to 
Godfrey’s boy, “ but you must go away 
for a little while. I can’t quite bear it 
yet : I’m not very strong.” 

Going out, he encountered Horace in 
the passage, looking terribly ill and worn 
— a shadow with feverishly brilliant eyes. 
Percival held out his hand. The other 
just touched it with his fingers, but he 
did even that under protest as it were, 
and because Godfrey Hammond was 
standing by and an open quarrel would 
be unbecoming in that house of death. 

“This is very terrible,” said Percival. 

Horace uttered a murmur of assent 
and escaped. 

His cousin looked after him with pain- 
ed eyes. Then he turned to Godfrey 
Hammond. “I sha’n’t be long at Brack- 
enhill when its master is known, shall I ?” 
said he. 

“ Who knows ?” was the reply. “ If it 
be as you say, he will have no cause for 
ill-will.” 

“ He’ll only think I tried to supplant 
him and failed. A year ago we were 
friends, but that can never be again. 
At times I almost fancy some one must 
have poisoned his mind against me.” 

“Mrs. James, perhaps,” said Ham- 
mond. He would have attributed any- 
thing to Mrs. James. 

They went out on the terrace. Per- 
cival sat on the stone balustrade, folded 


his arms and surveyed Braclcenhill from 
end to end as he had surveyed it the 
evening he saw it first. Then his grand- 
father had reproached him for his indiffer- 
ent declaration that he liked old houses, 
as if this were no more to him than any 
other. Now his heart was heavy within 
him because it was so much more, and 
he was so soon to be banished from it. 

“ When is the funeral to be ?” he asked. 

“Monday.” 

“ Monday ! Isn’t that very soon ? 
Why, it — it was only on Thursday 
morning !” 

“It is unusually early,” said Ham- 
mond. “ But Mrs. Middleton especially 
wishes it to be on Monday.” He touch- 
ed a spot of lichen on the stone with his 
slim forefinger, and eyed it thoughtfully. 

“ Did you ever notice, Thorne, how great 
women are on domestic dates ? They al- 
ways know your birthday, and when you 
had the measles, or the precise day on 
which you made some one an offer, or 
fell down stairs, or were confirmed, or 
vaccinated, or came of age. Haven’t 
you noticed?” 

“Well?” said Percival. 

“Well,” said Hammond, trying hard 
to speak as if he scoffed at the little sen- 
timent, and doing it in the tenderest voice 
and with his head turned away, because, 
though he cared for few people, he cared 
much for the squire and Aunt Harriet — 
“well, it seems that next Monday will be 
the anniversary of Mr. Thorne’s % 

ding-day, fifty years ago. So Mrs. Mid- 
dleton has the fancy that it shall be the % 
day of his funeral — a sort of golden wed- 
ding, eh ? — when those two shall be side 
by side once more. Very absurd, you 
know: what difference can it make? 

Of course the whole thing must seem 
doubly ridiculous to you : you can’t get 
up any sentiment about your grand- 
mother, can you, Thorne? Why, if she 
stepped out of a romance, she is your 
grandmother, and there’s an end of it. 

I remember old Mrs. Thorne very well. 

She used to go about the house wrap- 
ped up in a drab shawl, and she read 
prayers to the poor squire and the ser- 
vants, and had the toothache a good 
deal. When I came over from school 


156 


FOR PERCIVALF 


one day and he tipped me a sovereign, 
she saw it and said, ‘ Half a crown would 
have been ample, Godfrey.’ I buttoned 
my jacket over it and ran away as hard 
as I could go, but I can hear her very 
tone at this moment.” 

“Perhaps,” said Percival, “she wasn’t 
quite the same fifty years ago. Perhaps 
she isn’t quite the same now.” 

“ Perhaps not. And, at any rate, Mrs. 
Middleton doesn’t see any absurdity in 
it. She was Miss Harvey’s bridesmaid. 
Half a century ago, to the very day, the 
bells were ringing over there, and the 
children throwing flowers down on the 
path, and people making speeches and 
fools of themselves ; and Mrs. Middleton 
was a pretty girl, as merry as any of 
them. And now — It’s horrible ! He’s 
to go back there to be buried, and she — 
By Jove, he’s the lucky one now !” 

“But he wasn’t married at Bracken- 
hill ?” said Percival. 

“ He was, though. General Harvey 
lived in the old red house near the rec- 
tory. You can’t remember it : it was 
pulled down twelve or fifteen years ago. 
1 wonder if there are any others alive who 
were at that wedding ? What a ghastly 
meeting it would be if they could come 
together! eh ? I wonder why she could- 
n’t let it rest, instead of forcing one to 
think of all this nonsense ? But, being 
a woman, of course she couldn’t. So 
Monday it is to be, and Monday it shall 
be, if the undertaker and all the milliners 
die of overwork, and even if Mrs. James 
doesn’t get her crape and bugles in time.” 

So saying, Godfrey Hammond moved 
off, but Percival lingered on the terrace 
thinking of that golden wedding. 

Willie Falconer rode over in the after- 
noon to inquire how they all were and 
to bring a note from Laura. Sissy was 
not excited or hysterical, but gentle, si- 
lent and depressed. “ She took no notice 
when I spoke of sending over to Brack- 
enhill,” Laura wrote. “ I said, ‘ I suppose 
Mr. Percival Thorne must have arrived 
by this time,’ and then she answered, 

‘ Yes, most likely.’ — ‘ Have you any mes- 
sage ?’ I asked. She only shook her head 
and laid her cheek on my hand. But 


just now she has looked up and said, 

‘ My love to Aunt Harriet.’ I will write 
again to-morrow, and hope she may be 
more like herself. I am thankful to say 
she slept well last night.” 

Percival, who had begged the note from 
Mrs. Middleton, studied it as if he would 
compel it to yield every atom of its mean- 
ing. “ She slept well.” Poor Sissy 1 That 
Wednesday evening she had said, “ I 
wonder if I shall sleep now ?” He 
thanked God that that poor little boon 
was not denied her. 

Young Falconer went off with a letter 
from Aunt Harriet. The poor old lady 
after writing it made up her mind to a 
painful effort and came down stairs. I 
think she feared some outbreak on 
Horace’s part, and felt that her pres- 
ence might control her favorite. She 
took her usual place when dinner-time 
came. There was a little difficulty among 
the rest of the party, and the two young 
men exchanged doubtful glances. Per- 
cival, who had given away Brackenhill, i 
hesitated about resigning his right to his 
grandfather’s chair. Neither so much , j 
wished to take the vacant place as he ^ 
was unwilling to seem as if he thought ] 
his rival had the better claim. ' 

“Godfrey Hammond, will you sit at | 
the bottom of the table ?” said Aunt i 
Harriet in her gentle voice. “ It will \ 
not seem so — so strange. You used to ] 
sit there sometimes, do you remember ? | 

A long time ago, when he was often ^ 
out.” 

Percival dropped into a chair with a 
sigh of relief. He could yield the place, 
since it was not to Horace. 

Hammond began to carve in his swift, 
methodical way. He had Mrs. James 
Thorne on his right, and Horace sat 
between his mother and Aunt Harriet. 
Percival was alone on the opposite side. 

Mrs. James thought it her duty to be 
profoundly affected on this occasion. Her 
long-drawn and resounding sighs were j 
heard from time to time, but she con- 
trived to eat a very substantial dinner in 
the intervals. Hammond, even while he 
politely helped her, meditated profound- 
ly on the restraints of habit and etiquette. j 
They seemed to him extraordinarily pow 


^'FOR PERCIVALF 


157 


erful. Mrs. James took out a handker- 
chief with a wide hem and wiped noth- 
ing out of her eyes with the greatest care. 
Hammond felt that if he had been a shade 
less civilized he must have got up and 
shaken her that moment. 

Horace played languidly with his knife 
and fork, but could not eat. He broke 
the silence once with a question : “ Has 
anything been heard of Hardwicke yet ?” 

“Nothing,” said Hammond. "But I 
shall hear as soon as there is any news. 
Harry Hardwicke has promised to let 
me know at once.” 

“ What is to be done if he doesn’t 
come ?” 

“I haven’t the least idea. He will 
come.” Hammond’s tone was that of 
one who checks a discussion, and the 
heavy silence settled down again. 

When the little party broke up Percival 
went away on a melancholy errand. As 
he entered a shadowy room and closed 
the door behind him, the outer world of 
warmth and light grew strangely small 
and distant. Advancing with noiseless 
steps, he touched the heavy hangings 
of the bed. Life seemed nothing but a 
dream, and this calm, which ended all, 
the one reality. Standing by the dead 
man’s side and gazing on his face, he 
recalled the last words that he had heard 
that pale mouth utter: “It shall all be 
made right — to-morrow.” And before 
the morrow Death had come to set all 
things straight after his own fashion. 
The young man, with his strongly-beat- 
ing pulses, looked down on the features 
which were placid and not unhappy in 
their fixed expression, but drawn and 
cold, and like a delicately modelled wax 
mask rather than a face of flesh. And 
as he looked he longed to be able to 
ask, "Is all made right with you, now to- 
morrow has come?” Yet even while 
he longed to ask he shuddered. O God ! 
the horror if those blue lips should un- 
close and answer him ! He could not 
take his eyes from the corpse, and a 
chill ran slowly through his veins. He 
felt as if a cold breath were blowing on 
him from the outer darkness that girdles 
the little space of sun and shade and 
cheerful firelight which we call our life. 


With a strong effort he tore himself 
away and hurried down stairs. He was 
ashamed of his unreasoning horror, and 
felt that he would rather not face the 
others till he had recovered his calm- 
ness, so he turned into the library and 
flung himself into an arm-chair. He 
was sincerely ashamed, and yet he could 
not help it. That was not how he should 
have felt, not how he had expected to 
feel, while looking for the last time on 
the poor old squire who had been good 
to him. But as he sat in the gathering 
twilight the troubled thoughts and fan- 
cies which had swung beyond his con- 
trol in that momentary terror slowly 
swayed back to rest, and he asked him- 
self why he should have expected his 
feelings to be after one pattern more 
than another. Others have no doubt 
known the same surprise and perplexity. 

Many writers have described to us the 
emotions of the soul in supreme mo- 
ments; and such descriptions are very 
striking. They are no doubt the fruit 
of undistracted meditation, and are en- 
riched with the abundant adjectives of 
leisure. But when the crisis comes in 
hurry and confusion we are apt to dis- 
cover with astonishment that it has not 
conferred upon us the power of talking 
in blank verse. 

Percival propped his forehead on his 
hand and pondered drearily. Suddenly 
into his downward-bent eyes there came 
a flash of recognition and startled re- 
membrance. The household work had 
been somewhat neglected during the 
confusion of the last few days, and as 
no fire had been lighted no one had 
looked at the grate. In the fender lay 
a little heap of black ashes. Thorne 
knew what they were. Overhead lay the 
man who had so long been master there, 
dead and impotent, and here lay his will, 
as powerless as himself. The young man 
felt that the destruction of that paper had 
cost him more than he had anticipated. 
The broken fragments of tinder mocked 
him with the thought of what might have 
been. But did he repent? No — from 
the bottom of his heart, no ! It was a 
deed to be done without counting the 
cost. 


158 


“/■C>A’ PERCIVAir 

All passed off very smoothly at the in* 1 ner gave his evidence clearly and well : 
quest, as Hammond had foretold. Tur- 1 there was no need to call Mrs. Middle- 



ton, who had literally nothing to tell, 
and there was a general feeling of re- 
gret and respectful sympathy. In spite 


of his pride and his perverse spirit of 
contradiction, Godfrey Thorne had gain- 
ed a certain place in his neighbors’ lik- 


“GODFREY HAMMOND, WILL YOU SIT AT THE BOTTOM OF THE TABLE?” — Page 156. 



**FOJi PERCIVALF 


159 


ing. He never achieved popularity, but 
he had ruled at Brackenhill so long that 
people took him for granted, and only 
grumbled at his freaks as they grumbled 
, at the weather or anything else that was 
entirely beyond their control. And every 
one liked his sister. 

She was wonderfully relieved when 
^ the dreaded hour was over, and began 
to move about the house with mournful 
activity and to take an interest in the 
arrangements which had hitherto been 
left altogether in Hammond’s hands. 
Other cares divided her thoughts with 
these sombre preparations. On Sunday 
afternoon she came down stairs with her 
bonnet on, and looked for Percival. He 
was in the library, reading the Saturday 
Review. He looked up when the old 
lady put her hand on his shoulder. “Will 
you give me your arm?” she said; “I 
want to take a turn in the garden.” 
i Pacing to and fro, with little steps, on 
the sunny side of the clipped yew-hedge. 
Aunt Harriet opened her heart to her 
companion! “Percival,” she said, “I 
am so sorry about you and Sissy — so 
very sorry ! I don’t know what to say. 
I’m too old to meddle in your love-af- 
fairs” — the feeling with which she had 
first greeted the news recurred to her — 
“ a generation too old at the very least. 
But — ” 

“I don’t know that,” said Percival. 
“ When people talk of second childhood 
they usually mean something unpleas- 
ant, but they needn’t. We young folks 
sometimes feel as if the middle-aged peo- 
ple were the furthest away and such as 
you were coming gently back to us. 
They have lost their illusions, you see, 
and are hard and embittered, while 
you — ” 

“Do you think illusions grow again for 
us ?” said the old lady, looking up with 
a smile of tender scorn. 

“ No : if they are illusions there can be 
no resurrection of the dead for them. 
Only truths live. But there has been 
time with you for flowers to grow upon 
their graves.” 

Percival, burdened with the difficulties 
of his position, was not sorry thus to di- 
vert an embarrassing conversation into 


idle meanderings round the subject of 
youth and old age. It is a subject con- 
cerning which we almost all have some- 
thing to say, for we must be young in- 
deed if we have no backward glances 
which love to dwell for a moment on 
the past. 

But Aunt Harriet was not to be turned 
from her purpose. “ I don’t know much 
about any flowers growing now,” she 
said. “And it isn’t the right time to 
be thinking of a wedding, with our dead 
still in the house. But what can I do ? 
P'or if you stand apart too long, you will 
never come together again. And God- 
frey was so pleased that you two should 
marry ! He wished it so. What can I 
do ?” 

Percival dropped his former manner 
in a moment, and came abruptly to the 
point, since what he would have avoided 
was inevitable. “What can / do ?” he 
said gravely. 

“Tell me what is wrong,” Aunt Har- 
riet pleaded. “May I judge what you 
can do ? Afterward you can decide for 
yourself what you will do.” 

“ It is impossible for me to tell you all,” 
he replied. “ Sissy and I differed about 
something. We didn’t quarrel, you un- 
derstand : we simply looked on the mat- 
ter in question in a totally different light. 
I was grieved, but I did not see why we 
should not remain as we were and live 
down our misunderstanding. Sissy, how- 
ever, asked me to release her from her 
promise. I did so-r-God knows with what 
reluctance. But since then the more I 
think of it the more I fear that Sissy 
was right.” 

Aunt Harriet took her hand from his 
arm. 

“Ah? You think this unsatisfactory, 
and me cold?” said Percival. “You 
may understand me better some day. 
Or you may not.” 

“ I couldn’t understand you less.” 

“ I can’t help talking in riddles. Aunt 
Harriet, when any one you love is dying, 
and lingers very long in pain, you would 
give your life that he should live, and yet 
when death comes it is a relief, and you 
know that it is best. I can’t bear to look 
forward to my life now. I used to look 


i6o 


**FOR PERCIVALF 


forward to a happy future with Sissy. 
Now that future is dead, and has left 
me very lonely; but it is better that it 
should be so than that it should die 
slowly and painfully, as I fear it would 
have done.” 

” But why ? why ? For she loved you, 
and you loved her ?” 

Percival bent his head, and the solemn 
gesture was more than a thousand words. 
‘‘Are you sure she loved me?” he said 
after a pause. ‘‘ I think not. She fan- 
cied she did, poor child ! but she was 
afraid of me. I felt as if she stabbed 
me when she looked up at me with her 
frightened eyes. I did not mean to be 
hard on her: I meant to be very gentle, 
but even my gentleness was rough and 
stern to her, it seems. When she shrank 
away from me and begged for her free- 
dom, what could I do but give it back to 
her ? I would have given her my life, 
only it wouldn’t have been much to 
the purpose.” 

‘‘ But are you sure — ? It was so hasty !” 
faltered Aunt Harriet. 

‘‘ Shall I tell you what makes me sure, 
now that the first shock has passed and 
I can understand it better?” said Perci- 
val gloomily. ‘‘When we were going 
to part, when I had yielded and she was 
free, she put her arms about my neck 
and kissed me. She wouldn’t have let 
me hold her and kiss her unless she were 
very certain of her freedom — unless she 
knew that I could never win her back 
again. And she cried, my poor darling ! 
I felt her tears. She wouldn’t have been 
so grieved for my pain without being 
quite sure there was no help for it.” 

Aunt Harriet looked at the little peb- 
bles at her feet. She was silenced, per- 
plexed, distressed. 

‘‘ Perhaps in a little while you may see 
that it is best as it is, in other ways,” 
said Percival. ‘‘ At any rate, could any- 
thing be so dreadful as that we should 
marry, and that I should find that I 
couldn’t make her happy, and know 
that I had had the doubt in my heart 
even on. our wedding-day ? As I should 
have.” 

‘‘ I don’t know what to think,” said 
Aunt Harriet. 


‘‘Wait,” Percival replied — ‘‘wait till 
this sorrowful time has gone by a little. 
See if Sissy is not brighter and happier 
for her liberty — if she does not regain 
her strength and spirits.” 

‘‘ But Sissy was ill before her engage- 
ment to you. That can’t be it.” 

“Wait and see,” he continued. “If 
she does, you will know that my fear 
was the truth — that she mistook her feel- 
ings toward me, and did not love me.” 

“If she is happier. And if not?” 

“What can I do?” he replied. “I 
have given her all I could ; and it was 
very little use, I think. Here is Ham- 
mond coming.” 

Godfrey, with his eye-glass up, came 
peering round the wall of green. “ Har- 
ry Hardwicke is here,” he announced as 
he approached. “ He has had a tele- 
gram from his father. He didn’t get 
our second message, evidently — I doubt- 
ed if it would find him — for he heard 
nothing till he got back to Paris, after 
a longer stay than he expected.” 

“When will he be back?’* 

• “He comes by the last train to-night, 
so he will be here in good time to-mor- 
row.” 

“Thank Heaven!” Mrs. Middleton 
exclaimed. “ P was very anxious.” She 
released Percival as she spoke, dismiss- 
ed him with a sad little smile, and fol- 
lowed him with her eyes. 

“Godfrey Hammond,” she said, “I’m 
troubled about him.” 

“About Percival ? Why ?” 

“About Percival and Sissy.” 

Hammond was studying a twig which 
he had broken as he came. “ I know,” 
he said, looking obliquely at her. “ But 
wait till to-morrow.” 

“Till to-morrow ?” 

“We are all anxious enough for to- 
day,” Godfrey replied. “ Percival’s mar- 
riage couldn’t be an immediate question : 
dont\. 2 i\i^ up an unnecessary trouble just 
when you are overweighted.” 

“ It’s you who have done everything 
and taken all the trouble,” said the old 
lady, looking up at him. “What with 
the letters, and Robinson” (Robinson 
was the undertaker), “and the Times, 
and the servants’ mourning, and that 


» 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


dreadful inquest, I don’t know how to 
thank you.” 

” Don’t,” said Hammond. ” I didn’t 
do it for the sake of thanks. I did it 
for the sake of Auld Lang Syne, eh? 
— for your sake and his, and because 
I’m a meddlesome fellow who thinks 
he could manage creation better than 
anybody else. We know each other 
of old, don’t we.?” 

Mrs. Middleton wept silently, and held 
his hand. 

“Better?” he said after a minute or 
two, laying his other hand so lightly on 
hers that the momentary touch was bare- 
ly a caress. 

“You are so good — so good!” Aunt 
Harriet whispered. “ It would have been 
such a load on my mind — the mourning 
and all !” 

“Oh, I made Mrs. James help me,” 
said Hammond. “ Her knowledge went 
a good way, with a little of my common 
sense.” 

They were walking toward the house. 
“Don’t be hard on Horace,” said Mrs. 
Middleton suddenly. “Oh, don’t be hard 
on my poor boy, for it’s very hard on him 
already.” 

“ I’m not hard on him. But, to tell 
you the truth, Horace rather avoids me, 
so it isn’t very easy to be cordial. I don’t 
know why he should. Still, I don’t for- 
get that both the boys are in a difficult 
position.” 

“Both ?” 

“Both,” Godfrey repeated firmly. “ I 
hardly know how one could be just to 
their respective claims. But you must 
find out how to hold the balance fairly, 
for they both love you.” 

I do not think any of the party slept 
soundly that Sunday night. Percival did 
not. He lay seeking through the shad- 
ows for the first faint outline of the win- 
dow which would show that the brief 
summer darkness was drawing to a close. 
And as he lay there he tried hard to real- 
ize what seemed so incredible to him, 
that less than a week had done it all. 
Six days earlier he had been busy with 
the preparations for his marriage. It 
was on the Tuesday that he had called 
on Godfrey Hammond and heard of the 
II 


Lisle failure. Nonsense 1 It was absurd. 
Why, it must be months since Lisle fail- 
ed I And yet he knew he heard of it on 
Tuesday night. Then on Wednesday he 
came down to Brackenhill, and Addie 
Blake was in the train, and made a mys- 
tery of something or other — talked in 
Gunpowder-Plot fashion about some sil- 
ly secret of hers which could not matter 
to any one. And he told his grandfather 
of his loss, and made up his mind that 
he was to carry the Old Man of the Sea 
on his shoulders from that time forward. 
Percival hated to recall this feeling. He 
knew that it was not altogether unjust, 
yet now it seemed a horrible thing to 
have had such a thought of the poor old 
squire, who had loved him and who was 
dead. That evening he saw Sissy, and 
they kissed each other and parted. Good 
Heavens 1 was it only four days since he 
said good-bye to Sissy ? Or was it four 
years ? Or four centuries ? Thursday 
he was at Rookleigh. Where was Rook- 
leigh ? In some other planet surely. The 
sleepy little town, with its formal trees, 
its white birds, its cloudless blue sky, 
came before his mind in wonderful ful- 
ness of detail. It was most vivid, yet 
most unreal, as if a man should have 
passed just one day amid the familiar 
scenery of an old willow-patterned plate, 
should have walked over the queer lit- 
tle bridge we know so well, should have 
rested in the mansion beneath the heav- 
ily-fruited tree, and then came suddenly 
back to his English life again. So clear 
and so incredible was that day to Perci- 
val. And thinking of it, he fell into a 
light, uneasy sleep, and dreamed that it 
was his grandfather’s wedding-day, and 
that the ceremony was to be performed 
in Rookleigh church. But all was anx- 
iety and confusion, for the bride was not 
ready and the time was very short. Per- 
cival thought that he held Godfrey Ham- 
mond by the sleeve in the lych-gate, and 
tried to warn him that the Shadwells’ 
vault was not safe. Godfrey, however, 
laughed, and said it was all right: he 
had put the squire down there to wait 
till the bride should arrive, and the best- 
man was standing on the entrance-stone 
to keep him from coming up till they 


i 


*^FOR PERCIVALr 




162 

were ready. Percival might have been 
astonished at such a method of dispos- 
ing of the bridegroom, but at that mo- 
ment he remembered that it was his 
wedding-day too, and where was Sissy ? 
And then followed a nightmare-hunt for 
her high and low. It was only ended by 
a sudden certainty — how acquired Per- 
cival could not tell — that Sissy was with 
the squire in the Shadwells’ awful vault. 
He was not far from waking when he 
came to this point, and all the hideous 
horror of the thought flashed upon him. 
He could not see Sissy, he could not get 


at her, and yet her frightened eyes drove 
him to despair. He started up in bed to 
find himself still at Brackenhill, with the 
cloudless sky glowing through his win- 
dow, the June sun crowning the tree-tops 
with gold and the breezes softly whisper- 
ing among the roses outside. The hor- 
rible fancy vanished. But surely it was 
not all a dream : something was going 
to happen. Who was to be married that 
morning ? With a quick grasp at real- 
ities Percival remembered that this was 
the squire’s golden wedding-day. 



i 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


163 


CHAPTER XXXI. 
WHY NOT LOTTIE? 



r was all over. 
The neigh- 
borhood had 
paid due hon- 
or to Godfrey 
Thorne. Old 
Garnett, who 
was kept at 
home by his 
gout, had writ- 
ten a letter of 
condolence to 
Mrs. Middle- 
ton, and ex- 
pressed h i s 
deep regret at 
h i s enforced 
absence. She 
was pleased 
with the let- 
ter. She did 
not care for 
Dick Garnett, 
but he had known her brother all his life. 
She would not have been so pleased, per- 
haps, had she seen old Dick grinning 
and showing his fierce old teeth as he 
wrote it : " Ought to have been there — 
believe I was his best man fifty years 
ago. But half a century takes the shine 
out of most things — and people too.” He 
shrugged his shoulders, eyed the last sen- 
tence he had written, and perceiving a 
little space at the end of a line, put in 
an adjective to make it rather warmer. 
“Won’t show,” he said to himself — 
“ looks very natural. Lord ! what a 
farce it all is ! Fifty years ago there 
was Thorne, like a fool, worshipping the 
very ground Fanny Harvey trod on, and 
a few years later he wasn’t particular- 
ly sorry to put her safe underneath it. 
Wonderful coal-scuttle of a bonnet she 
wore that wedding-day, to be sure ! And 
I was best man !” Dick chuckled at the 
thought. “I shouldn’t look much like 
best man now. Ah, well! I mayn’t be 


best, but Fm a better man than old God- 
frey to-day, anyhow.” (And so, no doubt, 
for this world’s affairs, Richard Garnett 
was, on the principle that “ a living dog 
is better than a dead lion.”) “And the 
candlemaker’s daughter begins her reign, 
for that poor lad will never marry. Upon 
my word, I believe I’m a better man than 
Master Horace now. And I’m not like- 
ly to play the fool with physic -bottles, 
either : I know a little better than that." 
No, Aunt Harriet would not have liked 
Garnett’s train of thought as he folded 
and addressed the letter which pleased 
her. And yet the old fellow meant the 
best he could. 

And now it was all over, and Brack- 
enhill would know Godfrey Thorne no 
more. But for that one day he was still 
all-powerful, for they had met to hear his 
will read. 

Horace sat by the table with an angry 
line between his brows, and balanced a 
paper-knife on his finger. He tried to 
appear composed, but a shiver of im- 
patience ran through him more than 
once, and the color came and went on 
his cheek. His mother was by his side, 
controlling her face to a rigidly funereal 
expression. But the effort was evident. 

Godfrey Hammond said to himself, 
“ Those two expect the worst. And if 
the worst comes, if Percival is mistaken 
and Horace is cut off with just a pittance, 
we shall see what Hunting Harry’s tem- 
per really is. We may have an unpleas- 
ant quarter of an hour, but it will give us 
a vivid idea of the end of the millenni- 
um, I fancy.” 

Aunt Harriet was unfeignedly troubled 
and anxious. 

Percival was rather in the background. 
Sitting on one chair, he laid his folded 
arms on the back of another and rested 
his chin on his wrists. In this attitude 
he gazed at Hardwicke with the utter 
calm of an Assyrian statue. He felt his 
pulses throbbing, and it seemed to him 
as if his anxiety must betray itself. But 


164 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


it did not. If you have a little self-re- 
straint and presence of mind you can 
affect to have much. Percival had that 
little. 

Just before Hardwicke began to read 
Mrs. James leant toward her son and 
whispered with an air of mystery. He 
answered with a short and sullen nod. 

Hardwicke read clearly but monot- 
onously. The will was dated four days 
after Alfred Thorne’s death — not only 
before Percival came to Brackenhill, but 
before any overtures had been made to 
him. Mrs. Middleton came first with a 
legacy of ten thousand pounds and a few 
things which the dead man knew she 
prized — their mother’s portrait and one 
or two memorials of himself. Sissy had 
five thousand pounds and a small portion 
of the family jewels, which were very 
splendid. His godson, Godfrey Ham- 
mond, had three pictures and a ring, all 
of considerable value, and two or three 
other things, which, though of less im- 
portance, had been looked upon as 
heirlooms by successive generations of 
Thornes. Hammond perfectly under- 
stood the wilful pride and remorseful 
pangs with which that bequest was 
made. 

Then came small legacies to old 
friends. Duncan the butler and one or 
two of the elder servants had annuities, 
and the others were not forgotten. Two 
local charitable institutions had a hun- 
dred pounds each. By this time Horace 
was white to his very lips and drawing 
his breath painfully. Percival preserved 
an appearance of calm, but he could feel 
his strong, irregular heart-throbs as he 
leant against the chair. 

The lawyer went on to read the words 
which gave Brackenhill to Horace for 
his life. If he died and left no son to 
inherit the estate, it was to go to Per- 
cival Thorne. But unless Horace died 
first, and died childless, Percival would 
not take sixpence under his grandfather’s 
will. 

It was a heavy blow, and his lips and 
hands tightened a little as he met it. 
He had known that the great prize was 
for his cousin, but he had fancied that 
there might be some trifling legacy for 


him. He would have been more thank- 
ful than words could say for half the an- 
nuity which was left to the butler. The 
remembrance of that paper which but 
for him would have been all powerful 
rose vividly before his eyes. Did he re- 
pent now that he was certain of the great- 
ness of the sacrifice ? Again from the bot- 
tom of his heart he answered, No. But 
even while Hardwicke read the words 
which doomed him to beggary it almost 
seemed to young Thorne as if the wrink- 
led waxen face and shrunken figure must 
suddenly become visible in the back- 
ground to protest — as if a dead hand 
must be laid on that lying will which 
was itself more dead than the newly- 
buried corpse. Even in that bitter mo- 
ment Percival was sorry for the poor old 
squire. 

Hardwicke finished, and thought it all 
very well. He did not pity the young fel- 
low opposite him who had listened so in- 
tently and now was looking thoughtfully 
into space. The lawyer summed up Per- 
cival’s position in his own mind thus : 

He had an income of his own, amount 
unknown, but as during Alfred Thorne’s 
life it had sufficed for both, it must be 
more than enough to support the son. 

He was engaged to Sissy Langton. 
Her father had left her at least eight 
hundred pounds a year, besides which 
there were all the accumulations of a 
long minority and this legacy. Mr. 
Hardwicke thought that the united in- 
comes would be more than fifteen hun- 
dred pounds a year. 

There were expectations too. Mrs. 
Middleton was rich, and though some 
of her property would revert to her hus- 
band’s family, Hardwicke knew that she 
had saved a considerable sum. He had 
no doubt that those savings and her 
brother’s ten thousand pounds would 
go to Sissy, and consequently to Per- 
cival. 

And lastly he looked at the new owner 
of Brackenhill. No, Mr. Hardwicke did 
not pity Mr. Percival Thorne. 

All these thoughts had flashed through 
his mind as he folded the paper and laid 
it down. Mrs. Middleton broke the si- 
lence. “But Percival — ’’ she exclaimed 


PERCIVALF 


165 


in utter bewilderment : “ I don’t under- 
stand. What does Percival have.?” 

“ Nothing,” said the young man quick- 
ly, lifting his head and facing her with a 
brave smile. 

‘‘Nothing.? It isn’t possible ! It isn’t 
right !” 

‘‘That will was made before ever I 
came here. It doesn’t mean any un- 
kindness to me, for he didn’t know me.” 

‘‘ But did he never make another ? — 
Horace! — Oh, Mr. Hardwicke, know 
Godfrey never meant this ! That was 
what his letter was about, then ?” 

‘‘ He intended to make some change, 
no doubt,” said Hardwicke. 

‘‘Perhaps Mr. Percival Thorne would 
like to dispute the will.” It was evident 
f that Mrs. James perfectly comprehended 
I the position. Aunt Harriet looked help- 
lessly at her boy, unable to understand 
I his silence. 

\ Horace, though unconscious of the 
I glance, rose suddenly to his feet. ‘‘I 
I want to understand,” he began in a high 
[ thin voice — an unnatural voice — which 
all at once grew hoarse. 

‘‘Yes — what?” said Hardwicke, look- 
ing up at the young man, who rested 
both his quivering hands on the table 
to support himself. All eyes were turn- 
I ed to the one erect figure. 

‘‘That” — Horace nodded at the will 
— ‘‘that makes me master here, eh?” 

I ‘‘Undoubtedly,” Hardwicke replied, 
wondering whether Horace was unusu- 
ally slow of comprehension. 

' ‘‘Nothing can alter it?” said Horace. 
‘‘ I may do what I please in everything .? 
I want to be sure.” 

‘‘You can’t sell it, if you mean that,” 
said the lawyer. ‘‘ Didn’t you under- 
I stand ? You have only — ” 

' ‘‘I know — I know that.” The inter- 

ruption was hasty, as if the speaker would 
! not be reminded of an unpleasant truth, 
j Hardwicke’s eyes rested on the two 
hands which were pressed on the table. 

I They were painfully weak and white, 
i ‘‘You are master here,” he said gently. 

1 ‘‘Certainly. Your grandfather has made 
j no conditions whatever. Brackenhill is 
j yours for your life.” 

j Horace looked fixedly at him, and half 


opened his lips as if to speak, but no 
sound came. It was so evident that he 
had something to say that the others 
waited in strained anxiety, and no one 
spoke except Mrs. James. She laid her 
fingers on his and said, ‘‘ Now — why not 
now .?” 

‘‘ Leave me to manage it,” he answer- 
ed, and drew his hand away, provoking 
a lofty ‘‘ Oh, very well I” He walked hur- 
riedly to the hearth-rug and stood in the 
master’s place with an air of having taken 
possession. Hardwicke moved his chair 
a little, so as to look sideways at the new 
squire : Hammond put up his glass. 

Mrs. James was like a living explana- 
tion of the text, ‘‘As an adamant harder 
than flint have I made thy forehead.” 
Though she was sulky and persistently 
silent, there was a lurking triumph in 
her eyes, and it was easy to see that 
she listened eagerly for the words which 
seemed to die on her son’s lips. He 
glanced quickly round, stepped back, 
and rested his elbow on the chimney- 
piece so awkwardly that a small china 
cup fell and was shivered to atoms on 
the hearth. 

‘‘Oh, Horace !” exclaimed Aunt Har- 
riet. 

‘‘ It’s mine,” said the young man with 
a nervous little laugh. ‘‘And — since 
Brackenhill is mine too — it is time that 
my wife should come home.” 

There was a startled movement and a 
sudden exclamation of surprise, though 
it would have been impossible to say 
who moved or spoke. 

‘‘Your wife I Do you mean that you 
are going to be married ?” said Hard- 
wicke. 

‘‘No. I mean that I am married,” 
Horace replied. ‘‘Oh, it’s all right 
enough. I took care of that. You 
shall know all about it.” 

" But how ? when .? who is she ?” Mrs. 
Middleton had her hand on his arm and 
was stammering in her eagerness. ‘‘ Oh, 
my dear boy, why didn’t we know ?” 

‘‘Because Mrs. Horace Thorne was 
Miss Adelaide Blake,” said Hammond 
decisively. 

Horace turned upon him and said 
‘‘No,” and he was utterly confounded. 


i66 


^^FOR PERCJVALF 


“But who, then? Tell us.” 

Horace looked at Percival, the only 
one who had been silent. “Why not 
Lottie?” he said, and the tone was full 
of meaning. 

Percival stared at him for a moment, 
and then leapt to his feet. “ It isn’t true !” 
he exclaimed. 

“ Indeed ! And why not ?” said Hor- 
ace. “If I may ask — ” 

“ Lottie do anything underhand ! Lot- 
tie ! It can’t be true !” 

“You’re very kind, but Lottie doesn’t 
want your championship, thank you,” 
said Horace with an angry sneer. “ No 
doubt you find it very incredible that she 
should prefer mine.” 

“Oh, by all means, if it suits her,” 
scoffed Percival, and sat down again, 
feeling stunned, robbed and duped. 

“And as to anything underhand — ” 
Horace began fiercely. 

Aunt Harriet, scared by the menacing 
clash of words, uttered a faint little cry. 

“Percival! Horace!” said Godfrey 
Hammond, “you forget what day this 
is — you forget Mrs. Middleton. For 
God’s sake don’t quarrel before her! — 
Horace, is this really true ? Is Lottie 
your wife ?” 

“Yes,” said the young man, turning 
quickly toward him : there was a sud- 
den light of tenderness in his glance — 
“since last November.” He paused, 
and then added softly, “the third,” as if 
the date were something sacred. “ Ham- 
mond, you know her : you know how 
young she is — only eighteen this month. 
If you choose to blame any one, blame 
me. And I’m not ashamed of what I’ve 
done.” He looked defiantly round. “I’m 
proud of having won her ; and as to my 
having concealed it, I ask you, in com- 
mon fairness, what else could I do ? My 
grandfather used to be very good to me, 
but of late he was set against me.” A 
quick glance at Percival, who smiled 
loftily. “Whatever I did was wrong. 
If I’d told him I was going to marry a 
princess, it wouldn’t have satisfied him. 
Since this time last year I’ve hardly had 
a good word. I’ve been watched and 
lectured, and treated like an outsider 
here, in my own home. You know it’s 


true, and you know to whom I owe it. 
I never expected to have my rights : I 
thought my grandfather would have no 
peace till I was driven out of Bracken- 
hill. And even now I can’t understand 
how it is that I am master here.” Per- 
cival smiled again, to himself this time. 
“But Lottie was willing to share my pov- 
erty — God bless her ! — and I won’t let 
an hour go by without owning my wife. 
I should be ashamed of myself if I did.” 

Horace paused, not unconscious of 
the weakness of his position, yet more 
like the Horace of old days to look at — 
flushed, with, a happy loyalty in his eyes 
and his proud head high in the air. 

“ No one will blame you for marrying 
the girl you loved,” said Percival in his 
strong voice. “ That is exactly what my 
father did. It is true that you manage 
matters in a different way, and natural- 
ly the result is different.” He rose. “ I 
prefer my father’s way — result and all.” 
And with a bow to the assembled com- 
pany young Thorne walked out of the 
room. 

Horace looked round to see how the 
attack was received — at Aunt Harriet, 
who was wiping away the quick coming 
tears ; at Hardwicke, who was looking 
at the door through which Percival had 
vanished ; at Hammond, who came for- 
ward a step or two. “ I ordered a dog- 
cart to come over from Fordborough for 
me,” he said. “If you will allow me I 
will ring and have it brought round.” 

“You are going?” said Horace. 

“We shall just catch the four-o’clock 
train very comfortably if we go now,” 
Godfrey replied. “ Thorne will prefer 
going by that.” 

“ I see : you take his part. Very well. 
I suppose sooner or later you must choose 
between us : as well now as later.” Hor- 
ace rang the bell. 

“Horace,” said Hammond, dropping 
his voice, yet speaking in the same tone 
of authority he had used once before that 
day, “ for the first time in your life Mrs. 
Middleton is your guest. If you have a 
spark of right feeling — and you have 
more than that — you will not make her 
position here more painful than it must 
be. We will defer all discussion : there 


''FOR PERCIVALF 


must be a truce while she is here. — My 
dog-cart,” he said over his shoulder to 
the servant. ” It was to come from Ford- 
borough. At once. — Keep out of the way 
ten minutes hence when your cousin 
goes,” he added to Horace: “it will 
be best.” 

The young squire bent his head in 
sulky acquiescence. 

“I shall take Percival with me,” said 
Hammond to Mrs. Middleton as he went 
by. ” He wants to be off, I know, and I 
shall be of more use with him than here.” 

He found Percival crushing his things 
into his little portmanteau and in hot 
haste to get away from Brackenhill. 

“I’m going by the four train,” Ham- 
mond remarked, “and I’ve told them 
you’ll drive with me.” 

” In one of his carriages?” said young 
Thorne, looking up with furious eyes. 
“No, thank you: I’ll walk.” 

“ If you jumped out of that window you 
wouldn’t have to go down his staircase,” 
said Hammond. 

“ Oh, if you came here to — ” began the 
[ young man, tugging at a strap. 

I “ I came here to ask you to drive with 
me in the dog-cart from the Crown. It’s 
no use pulling a strap tnuch past the 
tightest hole. Come, you are not going 
to quarrel with me ?” 

I “I’m a fool,” said Percival. “I shall 
feel it all in a minute or two, I suppose. 

( Just now I only feel that everything be- 
longs to the man who has duped me, 

; ^ and every breath I draw is choking me.” 
“ I understand,” returned Hammond. 
“ Percival, Mrs. Middleton is coming : I 
i hear her step. For her sake — to-day — 
! Thorne, you will not break hef heart?” 

! The old lady was knocking at the half- 
!t open door. “ Come in,” said Percival in 
^ a gentle voice. His portmanteau was 
^ strapped, and he rose as she entered, 
s “Come to say good-bye to me. Aunt 
’ Harriet? I’m off, you see.” 

^ “Oh, Percival, I can’t understand it!” 
I she exclaimed. “Horace married — mar- 
* ri^.d I And you going away like this! 
It is like a dream.” 

“So it seems to me,” said the young 
man. 

“And one of those Miss Blakes! Oh 


167 

dear ! what would Godfrey have said ? 
Oh, Percival, he never meant this !” 
She had her hand to her forehead as 
she spoke. 

“ No,” said Percival. “ But don’t fret 
about me : I shall do very well.” 

“But it isn’t right. Oh, I don’t know 
what to say or think, I am so bewilder- 
ed. Perhaps Horace has hardly had 
time to think yet, has he ?” she said 
faintly. “ He will do something, I’m 
sure — ” 

“ He mustn’t — don’t let him ! I can 
hold my tongue if I’m let alone. But if 
he insults me — ” said Percival. “Aunt 
Harriet, for God’s sake, don't let him 
offer me money.” 

“Ah!” in an accent of pain. “But 
my money ! Percival, do you want any ? 
It’s a good thing, as he said, that Mr. 
Lisle didn’t fail before you came into 
yours, but if you want any — ” 

“But I don’t,” said Percival. “As you 
say, it’s a good thing I have some of my 
own.” He had his fingers in his waist- 
coat pocket, and was wondering which of 
the coins that he felt there would prove 
to be gold. It was an important ques- 
tion. “ Don’t vex yourself about me. 
Aunt Harriet. Kiss me and say good- 
bye : there isn’t much time, is there ? 
Tell Sissy — ” he stopped abruptly. 

“What?” said the old lady. 

“Tell her — I don’t know. You’ll let 
me hear how she is. You’ve been very 
good to me. Aunt Harriet. It’s best as it 
is about Sissy, isn’t it, seeing how things 
have turned out.?” 

He caught up his luggage and went 
quickly out, but only to turn and pause 
irresolutely in the doorway. 

“ I’ll not say anything about Horace : 
we are best apart. But Lottie ! I liked 
.Lottie : we were very good friends when 
she was a school-girl. She is very young 
still. Perhaps she didn’t understand. I 
ought to say this, because you never knew 
her, and I did.” 

And having said it, he went away with 
a light on his sombre face. Mrs. Middle- 
ton looked up at Hammond with stream- 
ing eyes and shook her head : “ I shall nev- 
er like that girl : I shall never have any- 
thing to do with her. Godfrey was right. ’ ’ 


*^FOR PERCIVALr 


1 68 


“In what way ?’’ 

“ Percival was his favorite always.” 

“I’ll look after him,” said Hammond; 
and with a quick pressure of her hand 
he followed the young man down stairs. 

As they drove away Percival sat erect 
and grave, with a face as darkly still as 
if it were moulded in bronze. He went 
away from the dear old house without 
one backward glance : Horace might be 
looking out. He never spoke, and when 
they reached the station he took his ticket 
and got into the carriage without the least 
reference to Hammond, who followed him 
quietly. There was no one else with them. 
The silence was unbroken till they drew 
near their journey’s end, when Thorne 
took out his ticket and examined it cu- 
riously. “I wonder if I shall ever see 
another?” he said. 

“Another what?” 

“First-class ticket. I ought to have 
gone third.” 

“You get an opportunity of studying 
character, no doubt. But I think this is 
better to-day,” said Hammond. 

Percival was silent for a moment. Then 
he spread all his money on his open hand 
and eyed it : “What do you think of that 
for a fortune, eh, Godfrey ?” 

Godfrey glanced at the little constel- 
lation of gold and silver coins. “Wants 
a little more spending,” he said. “Two- 
pence halfpenny is the mystic sum which 
turns to millions. So Lisle has swindled 
you, has he ? I thought as much.” 

Percival nodded : “ Keep my secret. 
They sha’n’t say that I lived on my 
grandfather first, and then on Aunt Har- 
riet or Sissy. They may find it out later, 
and welcome if I have shown them that 
I can do without them all.” 

“Ah yes,” said Hammond a little vague- 
ly. “Here we are.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

LOTTIE WINS. 

Percival had not been wrong about 
Lottie: she had at any rate only par- 
tially understood what she was doing. 
The poor child had been bitterly humil- 
iated by the discovery that he did not 


love her, and felt that she was disgraced 
for life by her ill-judged advance. The 
feeling was high-flown and exaggerated 
no doubt, but one hardly expects to find 
all the cool wisdom of Ecclesiastes in a 
brain of seventeen. Lottie, flying from 
Percival’s scorn as she supposed, was 
ready for any desperate leap. What 
wonder that she took one into Horace’s 
open arms ! How could she find a bet- 
ter salve for wounded pride than by cap- 
tivating the man who had passed her by 
as nothing but a child, and who had been, 
as she would have said, “much too great 
a swell to take any notice of her" ? He 
had dangled in a half-hearted fashion 
after Addie, and had given himself airs. 
Wounded vanity had attracted him to 
Lottie, but, smitten by sudden passion, 
he wooed her hotly, with an eagerness 
which startled even himself. How could 
she be unconscious of the difference and 
of her triumph ? Percival Thorne, who 
had slighted her, should see her reigning 
at Brackenhill ! 

Proud, pleased, grateful, excited, dizzy 
with success, Lottie was swept away by 
the torrent of mingled feelings. Her 
sorrow for her father’s death was vio- 
lent, but not lasting. She could not feel 
his loss for any length of time, she had 
always been so much more her mother’s 
child. Even during her mourning there 
was something of romance in Horace’s 
letters of comfort, for Horace, who had 
always been the laziest correspondent in 
the world, wrote ardent letters to Lottie, 
and used all the hackneyed yet ever fresh 
expedients for transmitting them which 
have been bequeathed to us by gene- 
rations o*f bygone lovers. There were 
meetings too, more romantic still. No 
one is so sentimental as the man who is 
startled out of a languid scorn of senti- 
ment. He does not know where to stop. 
Horace would have been capable of ser- 
enading Lottie if Mrs. Blake would only 
have slept on the other side of the house. 

Addie was unconscious of the fiery ro- 
mance which went on close at hand. She 
felt that the languid attentions which she 
had prized were fading away and would 
never ripen to anything more. Her sor- 
row for her father’s death was deeper 


<^FOR PERC/VALF 


169 


than Lottie’s, and while it was fresh 
she hardly thought of Horace Thorne’s 
coldness, except as a part of the general 
dreariness of life, and did not attempt to 
seek out its cause. Even Mrs. Blake 
never for a moment expected the reve- 
lation which was made to her near the 
beginning of October. 

It was Lottie who told her, coming to 
her one night with a white face of agony 
and resolution. 

Horace was dangerously ill. He had 
been ill before, but this was something 
altogether different. The cold which led 
to such alarming results had been caught 
in one of his secret expeditions to see 
Lottie. She had been forced to keep 
him waiting, and a chilly September 
rain had drenched him to the skin. 
He had gone away in his wet clothes, 
had tried to pretend that there was noth- 
ing amiss with him, and had gone out the 
next day in order to be able to attribute 
his cold to a ride in the north-ea'st wind. 
Since that time Lottie had had three let- 
ters — the first a gallant little attempt at 
gayety and hopefulness; the second, 
after a considerable interval, depressed 
and anxious. They had ordered him 
abroad. “I am sure they think badly 
of me,” he wrote, “though I’ll cheat the 
grave yet — if I can. But how am I to 
I live through the winter in some horri- 
ble hole of a place without my darling ? 
Suppose I get worse instead of better, and 
die out there, and never see you again — 
never once ?” And so on for a page of 
forebodings. Lottie’s fondness for him, 
fanned by pity and remorse — was it not 
for her that he had risked his life ? — flamed 
up to passion. They say that a woman al- 
ways puts the real meaning of her letter 
into the postscript. I don’t know how that 
may be, but I do not think she would ever 
fail to give full weight to any postscript 
she might receive. Horace’s postscript 
was, “After all. I’ve a great mind to 
stay in England and chance it.” 

Lottie was terrified. She replied, wild- 
ly entreating him to go, and vowing that 
they should meet again and not be parted. 
She did not yet know what she would do, 
but — Then followed a few notes of music 
roughly dashed in. 


He was puzzled. He tried the notes 
furtively on the piano, but they told him 
nothing. That day, however, there came 
to his mother’s house a girl with whom 
he had had one of his numerous flirta- 
tions in bygone days. He asked her to 
play to him, and then to sing, hanging 
over the piano meanwhile, and thrilling 
her with his apparent devotion and with 
the melancholy which reminded her of 
the fate which threatened him. When 
she had finished her song he said, “But 
you’ll sing me one more, won’t you ? I 
sha’n’t have the chance again, you know,” 
He looked down as he spoke and struck 
the notes which haunted him. “ Do you 
know what that is ?” he asked. “It has 
been going in my head all day, and I 
can’t put a name to it.” 

She tried it after him. “ What is it ?” 
she said : “ I ought to remember,” and 
paused, finger on lip. Horace’s eager 
eyes flashed upon hers, when she sud- 
denly exclaimed, “ I know. It’s one of 
Chappell’s old songs;” and, dashing her 
hands victoriously upon the keys, she 
sang “Love will find out the way.” 

“Ah !” said Horace, and stood erect in 
a glow of passion and triumph. He re- 
membered himself enough to ask again 
for one more song, but when, with a wist- 
ful tremor in her voice, she said, “This ? 
you used to like this,” he assented, with- 
out an idea what it was, and dropped into 
the nearest arm-chair to ponder Lottie’s 
message. He was quite unconscious that 
the girl at his side was singing “O Fair 
Dove ! O Fond Dove !” with an earnest- 
ness of meaning, a pathos and a power, 
which she never attained before or since. 
But he was sorry when she stopped, for 
he had to come out of a most wonderful 
castle in the air and say “Thank you.” 
When she went away he looked vaguely 
at her and let her hand fall, as was only 
natural. How we listen for the postman 
when we are longing for a letter and 
sick with hope deferred ! But who thinks 
of him when he has dropped it into the 
box and is going down the street ? Hor- 
ace felt almost sure as he said good-bye 
that Love had found out the way. 

And his next note sent Lottie to her 
mother. 


170 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


Mrs. Blake was utterly confounded 
when her younger daughter announced 
tliat she was engaged to Horace Thorne. 
“It was no good saying anything,” said 
Lottie frankly, “ for his old wretch of a 
grandfather wouldn’t think we were good 
enough to marry into his family, and I 
dare say he would go and leave all his 
money to Percival if Horace thwarted 
him. So we thought we would wait. 
People can’t live very much longer when 
they are seventy-seven, can they ? At 
least they do sometimes, I know,” Lot- 
tie added, pulling herself up. “You see 
them in the newspapers sometimes in 
their ninety - eighth or ninety - seventh 
year. I’ve noticed lately. But I’m sure 
it will be very wicked if he lives twenty 
years more. And now Horace is ill, and 
we can’t wait. For he must not and shall 
not go away, and perhaps die, without 
me.” And Lottie broke down and wept. 

“But what do you want to do?” said 
Mrs. Blake. It was a shock to her, and 
she was sorry for Addie, but she could 
not repress a thrill of exultation at the 
thought that Horace Thorne, whom she 
had so coveted for a son-in-law, was 
caught. The state of his health was se- 
rious of course, but they must hope for 
the best, and the idea of an alliance with 
one of the leading county families daz- 
zled her. 

“We want to be married before he 
goes out, and nobody to know anything 
about it,” said Lottie; “and then you 
must take me abroad this winter.” 

Mrs. Blake declared that it was utter- 
ly impossible. 

“Oh, very well,” said Lottie, drying 
her tears. “ Then I give you fair warn- 
ing. I shall run away, and get to Hor- 
ace somehow. I don’t know whether we 
can get married abroad — ” 

“I should think not — a child like 
you, without my consent,” said Mrs. 
Blake. 

“No, I suppose we couldn’t. Well, 
then, it will be your doing, you know, 
if we are not. / shouldn’t like to have 
such a thing on my conscience,” said Lot- 
tie virtuously. “ But perhaps you don’t 
mind.” 

Mrs. Blake said that it was impossible 


that Lottie could be so lost to all sense 
of propriety, so wicked, so unwomanly — 

The girl stood opposite, slim, white 
and resolute. Her slender hands hung 
loosely clasped before her and a fierce 
spark burned in her eyes. 

“Oh, that’s impossible too, is it?” she 
said quietly. “We’ll see.” 

Mrs. Blake quailed, but murmured 
something about her “authority.” 

“Oh yes,” was the calm reply. “You 
might lock me up. Try it : I think I 
should get out. Make a fuss and ruin 
Horace and me. That you can do, but 
keep us apart you can’t.” 

“You don’t know, you can’t know, 
what it is you talk of doing, or you 
couldn’t stand there without blushing.” 

“Very likely not,” said Lottie. “But 
since I know enough to do it — ” 

“You are a wicked, wilful child.” 

“Wicked? Perhaps. Yes, I think I 
am wicked. I’m a child, I know. Help 
me, mother, for I love him !” 

The argument was prolonged, but the 
end could not be doubtful. Mrs. Blake 
could scold and bluster, but Lottie was 
determined. The mother was in bond- 
age to Mrs. Grundy : the daughter play- 
ed the trump card of her utter reckless- 
ness and won the game. 

Having yielded, Mrs. Blake threw 
herself heart and soul into the scheme. 
She announced that painful recollections 
made Fordborough impossible as a place 
of residence, that Lottie was looking ill, 
and that they both required a thorough 
change. She dropped judiciously dis- 
agreeable remarks about her stepson till 
Addie was up in arms, and said that her 
mother and Lottie might go where they 
liked, but she should go to her aunt. Miss 
Blake, till Oliver, who was on his way, 
came home. Then Mrs. Blake shut up 
her house and went quietly off to Folke- 
stone : Horace was to start from Dover 
in rather more than a fortnight’s time. 

After that the course was clear. Hor- 
ace found out that he was worse, and 
must put off his departure for a week 
or ten days. Then, when the time orig- 
inally fixed arrived, he said that he was 
better and would start at once. Nat- 
urally, Mrs. James was not ready, and 


'^FOR PERCIVALF 


171 



he discovered that the house was intol- 
erable with her dressmakers and pack- 
ing, that he must break the journey 
somewhere, and that he might as well 
wait for her at Dover. The morning 


after his arrival there he took the train 
to Folkestone, met Lottie and her moth- 
er, went straight to the church, and came 
back to Dover a lonely but triumphant 
bridegroom, while Mrs. Blake and Mrs. 



172 


^^FOR PERCIVALR 


Horace Thorne crossed at once to Bou- 
logne. 

It was necessary that Mrs. James 
should be enlightened, but Horace was 
not alarmed : he knew that she had no 
choice but to make common cause with 
him. Mrs. Blake, however, could hardly 
make up her mind what should- be done 
about Addie. She more than suspected 
that the tidings would be a painful hu- 
miliation to her daughter. “We mustn’t 
tell her,” she said at last to Lottie. “ She 
might be spiteful : it wouldn’t be safe.” 

“ It will be quite safe,” said Lottie. 
“ Because of what we used to say about 
Horace, you mean ? But that is j ust what 
makes it safe. I know Addie : she won’t 
let any one say that she betrayed me be- 
cause she wanted Horace herself once. 
She said she didn’t, but I think there 
was something in it ; and if there was, 
she’d be torn in pieces sooner than let 
any one say so.” 

There was a curious straightforward- 
ness about Lottie, even while she schemed 
and plotted. She calculated the effect 
of her sister’s tenderness for Horace as 
frankly and openly as one might reckon 
on a tide or a train, and behaved as if 
the old saying, “All is fair in love and 
war,” were one of the Thirty-nine Ar- 
ticles. 

She wrote her letter without difficulty 
or hesitation. It was after Horace had 
joined them, and he laid his hand light- 
ly on her shoulder as she was contem- 
plating her new signature. 

“Nearly done?” he said. “And who 
is to have the benefit of all this ?” 

“Addie: she ought to know.” 

“Ah!” There was something of un- 
easiness in his tone, as if an unpleasant 
idea had been presented to him. Hor- 
ace had felt, when he arranged his secret 
marriage, that he and Lottie were doing 
a daring and romantic deed, and risking 
all for love in a truly heroic fashion. But 
when she told him that she had written 
to Addie the matter wore a less heroic 
aspect. Lottie might be unconscious 
of this in her sweet sincerity, thought 
the ardent lover, but he remembered 
old days and felt like anything but a 
hero. 


“Do you want to see what I have 
said?” She tilted her chair backward 
and looked up at him with her great 
clear eyes. 

“ No,” Horace answered with a smile : 
“ I’m not going to pry into your letters.” 
In his heart he knew that it was impossi- 
ble to put the revelation of their secret to 
Addie into any words that would not be 
painful to him to read. 

“ Shall I give any message for you ?” 

“N-no,” said Horace, doubtfully: “I 
think not.” 

“ It might be considered more civil if 
you sent one.” 

“Then say anything you please,” was 
the half-reluctant rejoinder. 

“Oh, I’m not going to invent your 
messages, you lazy boy ! A likely sto- 
ry!” Lottie sprang up and put the pen 
into his hand : “ There ! write for your- 
self, sir.” 

Horace thought that a refusal would 
betray his feelings about Addie, and he 
sat dowm, wondering what he was going 
to say. But his eye was caught by the 
last two words of the letter, “Lottie 
Thorne and as he looked at them 
the young husband forgot Addie and 
his lips curved in a tender smile. 

“Make haste,” said Lottie from the 
window — “ make haste and come to 
me.” 

Horace started from his happy reverie, 
set his teeth and wrote : 

“Dear Addie: I suppose Lottie has 
told you everything. It was a reckless 
thing to do, no doubt : perhaps you will 
say it was wrong and underhand. Some 
people will, I dare say, but I hope you 
won’t, for I should like to start with 
your good wishes. May I call myself 
“Your brother, H. T. ?” 

In due time came the answer : 

“ Dear Horace : I will not pass judg- 
ment on you and your doings : I am not 
clever in arguing such matters. I will only 
say (which is more to the point, isn’t it ?) 
that you and Lottie have my best wishes 
for the safe-keeping of your secret, and 
anything I can do to help you I will. We 
are having very cold damp weather, so 


FOR PERCIVALF 


m 


I am glad you are safe in a warmer cli- 
mate, and hope you are the better for it 
“Your affectionate sister, 

“Adelaide Blake.” 

Horace showed this to Lottie, and then 
thrust it away and forgot it all as quickly 
as he could. Addie had read this little 
scrap in her own room, had stood for 
a moment staring at it, had kissed it 
suddenly, then torn it into a dozen pieces 
and stamped upon it. Then she gather- 
ed up the fragments, sighed over them, 
burnt them, and vowed she would think 
no more of it or him. But as she went 
about the house there floated continually 
before her eyes, “Your brother, H. T. 
and the word which had been so sweet 
to her, which had always meant her dear 
old Noll, and which she had uttered so 
triumphantly to Percival in Langley 
Wood when she said “ I have a broth- 
er,” became her torment. 

Horace felt like a hero again when he 
forgot Addie, and only remembered how 
he was risking his grandfather’s displeas- 
ure for his love’s sake. He fully thought, 
as he had said, that he was Esau, and 
that smooth Jacob would win a large 
share of the inheritance ; but when he 
stood with his back to the fireplace at 
Brackenhill, and knew that he was mas- 
ter of all, Percival’s parting sneer awoke 
his old doubts as to his heroism once 
more. He had succeeded too well, and 
the risk which had ennobled his conduct 
in his own eyes would never be realized 
by others. Percival’s attempt to sup- 
plant him had been foiled, and Horace 
was triumphant, yet he regretted the 
glaring contrast in their positions which 
rendered comparisons of their respective 
merits inevitable. But he could do noth- 
ing. Percival had said, “ Don’t let him 
offer me money.” Horace, keener-sight- 
ed than Aunt Harriet, had not the slight- 
est intention of doing so. He knew how 
such overtures would be received ; and, 
after all, Brackenhill was his by right! 
And had not Percival plenty to live on ? 

And as for himself, let who would turn 
their backs on him — even Aunt Harriet, 
if it must be so — he had Lottie, and could 
defy the world. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

A START IN LIFE. 

For some days after he left Bracken- 
hill, Percival was busy arranging his af- 
fairs. His ruin was remarkably complete. 
He had been running up bills in every di- 
rection during the last month or two, in- 
tending to pay for everything before his 
marriage out of the funds which were in 
Mr. Lisle’s hands. He had plenty there, 
he knew, for his method of saving had 
been to live principally on his grand- 
father’s supplies, and to leave his own 
to accumulate under his guardian’s care 
— a plan which had always seemed to 
him admirably simple, as indeed it had 
proved to be. Lately he had not re- 
ceived much from the squire, because 
the old man so fully intended to provide 
for his favorite once and for all on the 
approaching wedding-day. Percival got 
some of the tradesmen to take back their 
goods, and sold off everything he had to 
meet the rest of the claims against him. 
Even the watch his grandfather had giv- 
en him went, on Bombastes Furioso’s 
theory that 

Watches were made to go. 

Hammond was urgent that he should 
accept a loan. “ It isn’t friendly to be so 
infernally proud,” said Godfrey. 

“What do you call being ‘infernally 
proud’?” Percival retorted. “I’ve been 
living on you for the last fortnight ; and 
I bought myself a silver watch this morn- 
ing, and I’ve got two pounds seventeen 
shillings and sevenpence and a big port- 
manteau full of clothes. I don’t want 
your money.” 

It was after dinner. Hammond filled 
his glass and pushed the bottle to his 
guest. “What do you mean to do ?” he 
asked. 

“Ah, that’s the question,” answered 
Percival. “ Do you happen to know if 
one has to pass much of an examina- 
tion to qualify one for breaking stones 
on the roads now-a-days? Not that I 
should like that much and he sipped 
his claret reflectively. “It would be ra- 
ther monotonous, wouldn’t it? And I 
can’t help thinking that bits would get 
into one’s eyes.” 


174 


^*FOR PERCIVALF 


“I think so too,” said Godfrey. “Em- 
igrate.” 

“ That advice would be good in some 
cases. But addressed to any one who 
is notoriously helpless its meaning is 
obvious.” 

“Are you notoriously helpless?” 

“Am I not?” 

“Well, perhaps. What does it mean, 
then ?” 

“It is a civil way of saying, ‘Ruin is 
inevitably before you — gradual descent 
in the social scale, ending in misery and 
starvation. Would you be so kind as 
to go through the process a few thou- 
sand miles away, instead of just out- 
side my front door ?’ I don’t say you 
mean that — ” 

“I’m sure I won’t say I don’t,” Ham- 
mond interrupted him. “Very likely I 
do : I don’t pretend to be any better than 
my neighbors. But that doesn’t matter. 
If you are so clear-sighted that there’s 
no sending you off under a happy delu- 
sion, it would be mere brutality to urge 
you to undergo sea-sickness in the search 
for such a fate. As you say, it is attain- 
able here. Will you turn tutor ?” 

Percival winced : “ That sort of thing 
isn’t easy to get into, is it ? I doubt if 
I’ve the least aptitude for teaching, and 
I never went to college. I should be a 
very inferior article — not hall-marked.” 

“Then write,” said Godfrey. 

“Cudgel my lazy brains to produce 
trash, and hate my worthless work, which 
probably wouldn’t sell. I haven’t it in 
me, Godfrey.” There was a pause. — 
“By Jove, though, I will write!” said 
Percival suddenly. 

“What will you write?” 

“Anything. I’ll be a lawyer’s clerk.” 

“ But, my good fellow, you’ll have to 
pay to be articled. I fear you won’t 
make a living for years.” 

“Articled ? nonsense 1 I’ll be a copy- 
ing-clerk — one of those fellows who sit 
perched up on high stools at a desk all 
day. I can write, at any rate, so that 
will be an honest way of getting my 
living — the only one I can see.” 

Hammond was startled, and expos- 
tulated, but in vain. The relief of a de- 
cision was so great that Percival clung 


to it. Hammond talked of a situation 
in a bank, but Percival hated figures. 
His scheme gave him a chance of cut- 
ting himself loose from all former asso- 
ciations and beginning a new, unkno'wn 
and lonely life. “No one will take any 
notice of a lawyer’s clerk,” he said. “ I 
want to get away and hide myself. I 
don’t want to go into anything where I 
shall be noticed and encouraged, and 
expected to rise — don’t let any one ever 
expect me to rise, for I certainly sha’n’t 
— nor where any one can say, ‘ That is 
Thorne of Brackenhill’s grandson.’ I’m 
shipwrecked, and I’ve no heart for new 
ventures.” 

“Not just at present,” said Godfrey. 

“Never,” said the other. “I’m not 
the stuff a successful man is made of, 
and what I want isn’t likely to be gain- 
ed in business. I might earn millions, 
I fancy, if I set them steadily before my 
eyes and loved the means for the end’s 
sake, easier than I could get what I cov- 
et — three or four hundred a year, plenty 
of leisure, and brain and habits unspoilt 
by money-making. There’s no chance 
for the man who not only hasn’t the 
necessary keenness, but wouldn’t like to 
have it. If you want to say, ‘More fool 
you I’ you may.” 

Hammond shrugged his shoulders and 
shook his head. 

“Stick to your money, Godfrey,” said 
Thorne with a melancholy smile, “ or 
you’ll feel some day as if the ground 
were cut away from under your feet. 
It isn’t pleasant.” 

“ I’ll take your word for it,” said Ham- 
mond. 

Percival mused a little. “ It’s hard, 
somehow,” he said. “ I didn’t want 
much and I wasn’t reckless : upon my 
word, it’s hard. Well, it can’t be help- 
ed. Look here : do you know a lawyer 
who would suit me ?” 

“ Is that the way you mean to apply 
for a situation ? Let us see : will Your 
Highness stay in town ?” 

“And meet all sorts of people? My 
Highness will not.” 

“ In the country, then ?” 

“ No, a big town — the bigger the oet- 
ter — some great manufacturing place, 


''FOR PERCIVALF 


175 


where every one has smuts on his face, 
money in his pocket, and is too busy 
improving machinery to have time to 
look at his neighbor.” 

‘‘Would Brenthill do?” 

“Admirably.” 

“ I know a man there : I dare say he 
would as soon oblige me as not. What 
shall I say?” 

“Say that I want employment as a 
clerk, and that, though I am utterly in- 
experienced, I write a good hand and 
am fairly intelligent. Don’t say that I 
am active and obliging, for I’m neither. 
Tell him that if he can give me a fair 
trial it is all that you ask, and that he 
may turn me out at the end of a week 
if I don’t do.” 

Godfrey nodded assent. 

“ I think you may as well write it now," 
said Percival. “ I shall find it difficult to 
live for any length of time on this private 
fortune of mine without making inroads 
on my capital.” 

Hammond stretched himself and cross- 
ed the room to his writing-table. “Are 
you sure you won’t change your mind ?” 
he said. “ It will be a horrible existence. 
Clerks receive very poor pay : I don’t 
believe you can live on it.” 

“At any rate, I can die rather nnore 
slowly on it, and that will be convenient 
just now'.” 

“Why don’t you wait, and see if we 
can’t help you to something better?” 

Percival shook his head : “ No. 1 prom- 
ised Sissy that if I took help from any 
one, it should be from her. I must try 
to stand by myself first.” 

Godfrey wrote, and Percival sat with 
bent head, poring over the little note 
which Sissy had sent to entreat that the 
past might be forgotten. “ Let me do 
something for you,” she wrote. ’’ Come 
back to me, Percival, if you have for- 
given me ; and you said you had. I 
was so miserable that miserable night, 
and we were so hurried, I hardly know 
what I said or did. It was like a bad 
dream : let us forget it, and wake up 
and begin again. Can’t we ? Come 
and be good to me, as you were last 
autumn. You remember your song that 
day in the garden, ‘ You would die ere 


I should grieve ;’ and I have grieved 
so bitterly since last Wednesday night ! 
You will be good to me — won’t you ? — 
and I promise I will tell you everything 
always. I promise, Percival, and you 
know I will really when I say I promise.” 

He had answered her with tender and 
sorrowful firmness. . “I knew your letter 
was coming,” he said. “ I was as certain 
of it, and of what you would say, as if 
I held it in my hand. But, Sissy, you 
wouldn’t have written so to me if I had 
been a rich man, as you hoped I should 
be; and I can’t take from your sweet 
pity what you couldn’t give me when I 
asked it for love’s sake. It is impos- 
sible, dear, but I thank you from the 
bottom of my heart, and I love you for 
it. I hardly know yet where I shall go 
and what I shall do ; but if I should 
want any help I will ask it first of you, 
and I will be your friend and brother to 
my dying day.” 

Thus he closed the page of his life on 
which he had written that brief story of 
love. Yet Sissy’s letter was an inexpres- 
sible comfort to him. It was something 
to know that elsewhere a little heart was 
beating — so true and kind that it would 
have given up its own happiness — to 
help him in his trouble. 

A few days later Percival was going 
north in a slow train. On his right sat 
a stout man with his luggage tied up in 
a dirty handkerchief. On his left was an 
old woman in rusty black nursing an un- 
pleasant grandchild, who made hideous 
demonstrations of friendship to young 
Thorne. Opposite was a soldier smok- 
ing vile tobacco, a clodhopping boy in 
corduroy, and a big girl whose tawdry 
finery was a miracle of jarring and vul- 
gar colors. 

Never, I think, could a young hero 
have set forth to make his way through 
the world with less hope than did Perci- 
val Thorne. He was already dishearten- 
ed and disgusted, and questioned within 
himself whether life were worth having 
for those who went third-class. The slow 
train and the lagging hours crawled on- 
ward through the dust and heat. “And 
this,” he thought, “should have been my 
wedding-day !” 


176 


^^FOR percival: 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

NO. 13 BELLEVUE STREET. 

June gave way to July, July to August, 
August to September. Lottie reigned at 
Brackenhill, and Mrs. Middleton, whose 
heart clung to the neighborhood where 
she had lived so long, had taken a house 
on the other side of Fordborough. Be- 
tween it and her old home lay an impas- 
sable gulf — none the less real that it was 
not marked on the county map. It ap- 
peared there as a distance of five miles 
and a quarter, with a good road, but Mrs. 
Horace Thorne, as well as Mrs. Middle- 
ton, knew better. Lottie laughed,^ and 
Horace’s resentment was so keen that 
he was almost unconscious of his pain. 

Percival’s utter disappearance was a 
nine days’ wonder in Fordborough, and 
when curiosity was dying out it flamed 
up again on the discovery that the mar- 
riage was not only put off, but was off 
altogether. This fact, considered in con- 
nection with the old squire’s will, gave 
rise to the idea that there was something 
queer about Mr. Percival Thorne — that 
he had been found out at the last mo- 
ment, and had lost both wife and leg- 
acy in consequence. “ No doubt it was 
hushed up on condition he should take 
himself off. The best thing they could 
do, but how sad for an old county fam- 
ily ! Still, there will be black sheep, and 
what a mercy it was that Miss Langton 
was saved from him !” So people talk- 
ed, and generally added that they could 
not tell why — just a feeling, you know — 
but they never had liked that Percival 
Thorne. 

In September, Godfrey Hammond cut 
a tiny slip out of the Twtes and sent it 
to the banished man : “On the 15th, the 
wife of Horace Thorne, Esq., Bracken- 
hill, Fordborough, of a son.” 

Percival ate his breakfast that morn- 
ing with the scrap of paper by his plate, 
and looked at it with fierce, defiant eyes. 
Lottie was avenged indeed — she would 
never know how bitterly. He had sworn 
that he would never think of Bracken- 
hill, yet without his knowledge it had 
been the background to his thoughts of 
everything. And now the cruel injustice 
of his fate had taken a new lease of life 


in this baby boy : it would outlive him, 
it would become eternal. Percival leapt 
to his feet with a short laugh: “Well, 
that’s over and done with ! Good luck 
to the poor little fellow ! he’s innocent 
enough. And I don’t suppose he’ll ever 
know what a scoundrel his father was.” 
So saying, he glanced at his watch and 
marched off to his work. 

Those three months had left their trace 
on him. He loathed his life ; he had no 
companions, no hope ; he was absorbed 
in the effort to endure his suffering. His 
indolence made his daily labor hateful 
as the treadmill. He was fastidious, and 
his surroundings sickened him. His food 
disgusted him, and so did the close at- 
mosphere of the office. But he had cho- 
sen his fate, and he had no heart to try 
to escape from it, since it gave him the 
means of keeping body and soul to- 
gether. Day after day, as that hot Sep- 
tember wore away, he looked out on a 
dreary range of roofs and chimney-pots. 
He learned to know and hate every bro- 
ken tile. From his bedroom he looked 
into a narrow back yard, deep like a well, 
at the bottom of which children swarmed, 
uncleanly and unwholesome, and women 
gossiped and wrangled as they hung out 
dingy rags to dry. The fierce sun shone 
on it all, and on Percival as he leant at 
his window surveying it with disgust, yet 
something of fascination too. “I fancied 
the sun wouldn’t seem so bright in holes 
like this,” he mused. “ I thought every- 
thing would be dull and dim. Instead of 
which, he glares into every cranny and 
corner, as if he were pointing at all the 
filth and squalid misery, and makes it 
ten times more abominable.” Nor did 
the slanting rays light up anything pleas- 
ant and fresh in the bedroom itself. It 
was shabby and small, with coarsely- 
papered walls and a discolored ceiling. 
Percival remarked that his window had 
a very wide sill. He never found out 
the reason, unless it were intended that 
he should take the air by sitting on it 
and dangling his legs over the foulest 
of water-butts. But when night came 
the broad sill was the favorite battle- 
field for all the cats in the neighbor- 
hood. It might have been pointed out 


FOR PERCIVALF 


177 


as readily as they point you out the place 
where the students fight at Heidelberg. 

From his sitting-room he looked on 
a melancholy street. The unsubstantial 
houses tried to seem — not respectable, 
no word so honest could be applied to 
them, but — genteel, and failed even in 
that miserable ambition. Percival used 
to watch the plastered fronts, flaking in 
the sun and rain, old while yet new, with 
no grace of bygone memory or present 
strength, till he fancied that they might 
be perishing of some foul leprosy like 
that described in Leviticus. And the 
wearisome monotony ! They were all 
just alike, except that here and there 
one was a little dingier than its neigh- 
bors, with the railings more broken and 
the windows dirtier. One day, when his 
landlady insisted on talking to him and 
Percival was too courteous to be abso- 
lutely silent, he asked where the pros- 
I pect was from which the street took its 
name. She said they used to be able to 
see Three-Corner Green from their attic- 
' windows. In her mother’s time there 
was a tree and a pond there, she be- 
lieved, and she herself could remember 
I it quite green, a great place for Cheap 
! Jacks and people who preached and 
sold pills. But now it was all done 
away with and built over. It was Par- 
\ adise Place, and Paradise Place wasn’t 
■ much of a prospect, though there might 
j be worse. But it was no detriment to 
I Mr. Thorne’s rooms, for it was only the 
; attic that ever had the view. However, 
j folks must call the place something, if 
only for the letters ; and Bellevue look- 
I ed well on them and sounded airy, and 
j she was never the one for change. This 
I sounded so like the beginning of a dis- 
course on things in general that Perci- 
val thanked her and fled. 

It was about ten minutes’ walk to 
Mr. Ferguson’s office. There, week af- 
ter week, he toiled with dull industry. 
He could not believe that his drudgery 
would last : something — death perhaps 
— must come to break the monotony 
of that slowly unwinding chain of days, 
which was like a grotesquely dreary 
dream. To have flung himself heart 
and soul into his work not only de- 
12 


manded an effort of which he felt him- 
self incapable, but it seemed to him that 
such an effort could only serve to iden- 
tify him with this hideous life. So, with 
head bowed over interminable pages, he 
labored with patient indifference. On his 
left sat a clerk ten or fifteen years older 
than himself, a white -faced man, who 
blinked like an owl in sunlight and had 
a wearisome cough. There was always 
a sickly smell of lozenges about him, and 
he was fretful if every window was not 
tightly closed. On Percival’s right was 
a sallow youth of nineteen. He worked 
by fits and starts, sometimes driving his 
pen along as if the well-being of the uni- 
verse depended on the swift completion 
of his task and the planets might cease 
to revolve if he were idle, while a few 
minutes later he would be drawing ab- 
sently on his blotting-paper or feeling 
for his whiskers, as if they might have 
arrived suddenly without his being aware 
of it. Probably he was thinking over his 
next speech at the Young Men’s Mutual 
Improvement Society. They debated 
high and important matters at their 
weekly meetings. They inquired, '‘Was 
Oliver Cromwell justified in putting King 
Charles to death t" they read interesting 
papers about it, and voted the unlucky 
monarch into or out of his grave with an 
energy which would have allowed him 
little rest if it could have taken effect. 
They marshalled many arguments to de- 
cide the knotty and important question, 
“ Does our Country owe most to the War- 
rior or the Statesman ?” and they made 
up their minds and voted about that too. 
The sallow young man was rather a dis- 
tinguished member of the society, and 
had much to say on such problems as 
these. 

The clerks did not like Thorne. They 
felt that he was not one of themselves, 
and said that he was stuck up and sulky. 
They resented his silence. If you do not 
like a man you always understand his si- 
lence as the speech you would most dis- 
like — veiled. Above all, they resented 
his grave politeness. They left him 
alone, with an angry suspicion that it 
was exactly what he wanted them to do ; 
as indeed it was, though he was painfully 


178 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


conscious of the atmosphere of distrust 
and ill-will in which he lived. But he 
could have found no pleasure in their 
companionship, and in fact was only in- 
terested in their coats. He was anxious 
to learn how shabby a man might be- 
come and pass unnoticed in the office ; 
so he would glance, without turning his 
head, at the white-faced man’s sleeve, 
and rejoice to see the same threadbare 
cuff travelling slowly across a wide ex- 
panse of parchment. 

When he wrote to Hammond he said 
that he was getting on very well. He 
could not say that his work was very 
amusing, but very likely he should get 
more used to it in time. He wished to 
be left alone and to give it a fair trial. 
How was Sissy ? 

Hammond replied that Mrs. Middle- 
ton had aged a good deal, but that she 
and Sissy were both pretty well, and had 
got an idea — he could not think from 
whom — that Percival had gone in for 
the law and was going to do something 
very amazing indeed. " They are wait- 
ing to be surprised,” Godfrey wrote, " like 
children on their birthdays. St. Cecilia 
especially wouldn’t for worlds open her 
eyes till the right moment comes and 
you appear in your glory as lord chan- 
cellor or attorney-general, or something 
of the kind. I’m afraid she’s a little hazy 
about it all, though of course she knows 
that you will be a very great man and 
that you will wear a wig. Mrs. Mid- 
dleton is perhaps a trifle more moderate 
in her expectations. I left them to build 
their castles in the air, since you had 
bound me to secrecy, but I wish you 
would tell them the truth. Or I would 
help you, as you know, if I knew how.” 

Percival answered that Godfrey must 
not betray him : " I couldn’t endure that 
Horace and his wife should know of my 
difficulties ; and as to living on Aunt Har- 
riet — never ! And how could I go back 
to Fordborough, now that Sissy and I 
have parted ? She would sacrifice her- 
self for me — poor child ! — out of sheer 
pity. No : here I can live, after a fash- 
ion, and defy the world. And here I 
will live, and hope to know some day 
that Sissy has found her happiness. 


Till then let her think that I am pros- 
pering.” 

Godfrey shrugged his shoulders over 
Percival’s note. It was irrational, no 
doubt, but Thorne had a right to please 
himself, and might as well take care of 
his pride, since he had not much else to 
take care of. So he attempted no per- 
suasion, but simply sent any Fordbor- 
ough news and forwarded occasional 
letters from Mrs. Middleton and Sissy. 
As the autumn wore on, Percival began 
to feel strange as he opened the enve- 
lopes and saw the handwriting which be- 
longed to his old life. He had an absurd 
idea that the letters should not have come 
to him — that his former self, the self Sissy 
had known, was gone. He read her let- 
ters by the light of what Hammond had 
told him, and saw the delicate wording 
by which she tried to show her sympa- 
thy, yet almost repelled his confidence. 
She was so anxious not to thrust her- 
self into his secrets — it was so evident 
that she would not be troublesome, but 
would wait with shut eyes, as Hammond 
had said, for a birthday surprise and tri- 
umph ! O poor little Sissy ! O faith which 
he felt within himself no strength to vin- 
dicate ! He answered her in carefully 
weighed sentences, and smiled as he 
wrote them down because they amused 
him — a smile sadder than tears. Perci- 
val Thorne was dead, and he was some 
one else, trying to think what Percival 
would have said, and to hide his death 
from Sissy, lest her heart should break 
for pity. 

It was very foolish ? Yes. But if you 
had parted yourself from every one you 
knew ; if for five months you had never 
heard a friendly word ; if you had a 
secret to hide and a part to play; if 
you lived alone, surrounded by faces 
of people with whom you had no faint- 
est touch of sympathy — faces which were 
to you like those of swarming Chinese or 
men and women in a nightmare, — per- 
haps you might have some thoughts 
and fancies less calm and less rational 
than of old. And the more changed 
Percival felt himself, the more he shrank 
from the friends he had left. 

November came. One day he looked 


^^FOR PERCIVALR 


179 


I at the date on the office almanac and re- 
1 membered that it was exactly a year since 
j he went down to Brackenhill and heard 
1 of old Bridgman’s death. He could not 
i repress a short sudden laugh. It was 
half under his breath, but his neighbor, 
who was at that moment gazing fiercely 
into space and turning a sentence, heard 
it, and felt that it was in mockery of him. 
Percival was thinking how seriously he 
had considered that important question, 
! “Would he stand as the Liberal candi- 
date for F ordborough ?’ ’ Percival Thorne, 
Esq., M. P. ! He might well laugh as he 
sat at his desk filling in a bundle of no- 
■ tices. But from that moment the sallow 
youth on his right hated him with a dead- 
ly hatred. 

' December came — a dull, gray, bitter 
December — not clear and sparkling, as 
December sometimes is, nor yet misty 
and warm, as if it would have you take 
it for a lingering autumn, but bitter with- 
out beauty, harsh and pitiless. Keen gusts 
I of wind whirled dust and straws and rub- 
bish in dreary little dances along Belle- 
! vue street, the faces of the passers-by 
i were nipped and miserable with the cold, 

I and the sullen sky hung low above the 
; pallid row of houses opposite. Percival 
looked out on this and thought of Brack- 
t enhill, which he left in leafy June. He 
f was very miserable : he had always been 


quickly sensitive to the beauty or dreari- 
ness around him, and the gray dulness 
of the scene entered into his very soul. 
Warmth, leisure, sunlight and blue sky ! 
There was plenty of sunlight somewhere 
in the world. O God ! what had he done 
that it should be denied him ? 

There was a weary craving upon him 
that might have led to terrible results, 
but his pride and fastidiousness saved 
him. His delicately cultivated palate 
loathed the coarse fire of spirits, and he 
had a healthy horror of drugs. Once or 
twice he had thought of opium when he 
could not escape, even in dreams, from 
the grayness of his life. "This is unen- 
durable,” he would say ; and he played 
in fancy with the key which unlocks the 
gates of that strange region lying on the 
borders of paradise and hell. But his 
better sense questioned, “Will it be any 
more endurable when I have ruined my 
nerves and the coats of my stomach ?” 
It did not seem probable that it would 
be. If death had been the risk he might 
have faced it, but he recoiled from the 
thought of a premature and degraded old 
age, still chained to the hateful desk. 

There are times when a man may be 
cheaply made into a hero. What would 
not Percival have given for the chance 
of doing some deed of reckless bravery ? 


i8o 


*^FOR PERCIVALF 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

OF THE landlady’s daughter. 



E arly in that December the land- 
lady’s daughter came home. Per- 
cival could not fix the precise date, but 
he knew it was early in the month, be- 
cause about the eighth or ninth he was 
suddenly aware that he had more than 
once encountered a smile, a long curl 
and a pair of turquoise earrings on the 
stairs. He had noticed the earrings : 
he could speak positively as to them. 
He had seen turquoises before, and ta- 
ken little heed of them, but possibly his 
friends had happened to buy rather small 
ones. He felt pretty certain about the 
long curl. And he thought there was a 
smile, but he was not so absolutely sure 
of the smile. 

By the twelfth he was quite sure of it. 
It seemed to him that it was cold work 
for any one to be so continually on the 
stairs in December. The owner of the 
smile had said, “ Good -morning, Mr. 
Thorne.” 

On the thirteenth a question suggested 
itself to him: ‘‘Was she — could she be — 


always running up and down stairs? Or 
did it happen that just when he went out 
and came back — ?” He balanced his 
pen in his fingers for a minute, and sat 
pondering. ‘‘Oh, confound it!” he said 
to himself, and went on writing. 

That evening he left the office to the 
minute, and hurried to Bellevue street. 
He got halfway up the stairs and met no 
one, but he heard a voice on the landing 
exclaim, ‘‘Go to old Fordham’s caddy, 
then, for you sha’n’t — Oh, good gra- 
cious 1” and there was a hurried rustle. 
He went more slowly the rest of the way, 
reflecting. Fordham was another lodger 
— elderly, as the voice had said. Perci- 
val went to his sitting-room and looked 
thoughtfully into his tea-caddy. It was 
nearly half full, and he calculated that, 
according to the ordinary rate of con- 
sumption, it should have been empty, 
and yet he had not been more sparing 
than usual. His landlady had told him 
where to get his tea : she said she found 
it cheap — it was a fine-flavored tea, and 
she always drank it. Percival supposed 
so, and wondered where old Fordham 
got his tea, and whether that was fine- 
flavored too. 

There was a giggle outside the door, 
a knock, and in answer to Percival’s 
‘‘Come in,” the landlady’s daughter ap- 
peared. She explained that Emma had 
gone out shopping — Emma was the grimy 
girl who ordinarily waited on him — so, 
with a nervous little laugh, with a toss 
of the long curl, which was supposed to 
have got in the way somehow, and with 
the turquoise earrings quivering in the 
candlelight, she brought in the tray. She 
conveyed by her manner that it was a 
new and amusing experience in her life, 
but that the burden was almost more than 
her strength could support, and that she 
required assistance. Percival, who had 
stood up when she came in and thank- 
ed her gravely from his position on the 
hearthrug, came forward and swept some 
books and papers out of the way to make 


**FOR percival: 


i8i 


room for her load. In so doing their 
hands touched — his white and beauti- 
fully shaped, hers clumsy and coarsely 
colored. (It was not poor Lydia’s fault. 
She had written to more than one of 
those amiable editors who devote a col- 
umn or two in family magazines to set- 
tling questions of etiquette, giving reci- 
pes for pomades and puddings, and tell- 
ing you how you may take stains out of 
silk, get rid of freckles or know whether 
a young man means anything by his at- 
tentions. There had been a little para- 
graph beginning, “ L.’s hands are not as 
white as she could wish, and she asks us 
what she is to do. We can only recom- 
mend,” etc. Poor L. had tried every 
recommendation in faith and in vain, 
and was in a fair way to learn the hope- 
lessness of her quest.) 

The touch thrilled her with pleasure 
and Thorne with repugnance. He drew 
back, while she busied herself in arrang- 
ing his cup, saucer and plate. She drop- 
ped the spoon on the tray, scolded her- 
self for her own stupidity, looked up at 
him with a hurried apology, and laugh- 
ed. If she did not blush, she conveyed 
by her manner a sort of idea of blush- 
ing. and went out of the room with a final 
i giggle, being confused by his opening the 
: door for her. 

Percival breathed again, relieved from 
an oppression, and wondered what on 
■ earth had made her take an interest in 
i^his tea and him. Yet the reason was 
not far to seek. It was that tragic, mel- 
ancholy, hero’s face of his — he felt so 
little like a hero that it was hard for him 
to realize that he looked like one — his 
sombre eyes, which might have been 
' those of an exile thinking of his home, 

: the air of proud and rather old-fashion- 
i ed courtesy which he had inherited from 
, his grandfather the rector and developed 
i for himself. Every girl is ready to find 
I something of the prince in one who treats 
: her with deference as if she were a prin- 
! cess. Percival had an unconscious grace 
I of bearing and attitude, and the consid- 
j erable advantage of well-made clothes. 

I Poverty had not yet reduced him to cheap 
' coats and advertised trousers. And per- 
I haps the crowning fascination in poor 


Lydia’s eyes was the slight, dark, silky 
moustache which emphasized without 
hiding his lips. 

Another rustling outside, a giggle and 
a whisper — Percival would have sworn 
that the whisper was Emma’s if it had 
been possible that she could have left it 
behind her when she went out shopping 
— an ejaculation, "Gracious! I’ve black- 
ed my hand!” a pause, presumably for 
the purpose of removing the stain, and 
Lydia reappeared with the kettle. She 
poured a portion of its contents over the 
fender in her anxiety to plant it firmly 
on the fire. " Oh dear !” she exclaimed, 
"how stupid of me! Oh, Mr. Thorne” 
— this half archly, half pensively, finger- 
ing the curl and surveying the steaming 
pool — "I’m” afraid you’ll wish Emma 
hadn’t gone out: such a mess as I’ve 
made of it! What will you think of 
me ?” 

" Pray, don’t trouble yourself,” said 
Percival. " The fender can’t signify, ex- 
cept perhaps from Emma’s point of view. 
It doesn’t interfere with my comfort, I as- 
sure you.” 

She departed, only half convinced. 
Percival, with another sigh of relief, pro- 
ceeded to make the tea. The water was 
boiling and the fire good. Emma was 
apt to set a chilly kettle on a glimmer- 
ing spark, but Lydia treated him better. 
The bit of cold meat on the table look- 
ed bigger than he expected, the butter 
wore a cheerful sprig of green. Perci- 
val saw his advantages, but he thought 
them dearly bought, especially as he had 
to take a turn up and down Bellevue street 
while the table was cleared. 

After that day it was astonishing how 
often Emma went out shopping or was 
busy, or had a bad finger or a bad foot, 
or was helping ma with something or 
other, or hadn’t made herself tidy, so 
that Lydia had to wait on Mr. Thorne. 
But it was always with the same air of its 
being something very droll and amusing 
to do, and there were always some art- 
less mistakes which required giggling 
apologies. Nor could he doubt that he 
was in her thoughts during his absence. 
She had a piano down stairs on which 
she accompanied herself as she sang, 


i 82 


**FOR PERCIVALF 


but she found time for domestic cares. 
His buttons were carefully sewn on and 
his fire was always bright. One evening 
his table was adorned with a bright blue 
vase — as blue as Lydia’s earrings — filled 
with dried grasses and paper flowers. 
He gazed blankly at it in unspeakable 
horror, and then paced up and down the 
room, wondering how he should endure 
life with it continually before his eyes. 
Some books lay on a side-table, and as 
he passed he looked absently at them 
and halted. On his Shelley, slightly 
askew, as if to preclude all thought of 
care and design, lay a little volume 
bound in dingy white and gold. Per- 
cival did not touch it, but he stooped 
and read the title. The Language of 
Flowers, and saw that — purely by acci- 
dent of course — a leaf was doubled down 
as if to mark a place. He straightened 
himself again, and his proud lip curled 
in disgust as he glanced from the tawdry 
flowers to the tawdry book. And from 
below came suddenly the jingling notes 
of Lydia’s piano and Lydia’s voice — not 
exactly harsh and only occasionally out 
of tune, but with something hopelessly 
vwlgar in its intonation — singing her fa- 
vorite song — 

Oh, if I had some one to love me. 

My troubles and trials to share I 

Percival turned his back on the blue 
vase and the little book, and flinging 
himself into a chair before the fire sick- 
ened at the thought of the life he was 
doomed to lead. Lydia, who was just 
mounting with a little uncertainty to a 
high note, was a good girl in her way, 
and good-looking, and had a kind sym- 
pathy for him in his evident loneliness. 
But was she to be the highest type of 
womanhood that he would meet hence- 
forth ? And was Bellevue street to be 
his world ? He glided into a mournful 
dream of Brackenhill, which would nev- 
er be his, and of Sissy, who had loved 
him so well, yet failed to love him alto- 
gether — Sissy, who had begged for her 
freedom with such tender pain in her 
voice while she pierced him so cruelly 
with her frightened eyes. Percival look- 
ed very stern in his sadness as he sat 
brooding over his fire, while from the 


room below came a triumphant burst 
of song — 

But I will marry my own love. 

For true of heart am I. 

Sometimes he would picture to him- 
self the future which lay before Horace’s 
three-months-old child, whose little life 
already played so all-important a part 
in his own destiny. He had questioned 
Hammond about him, and Hammond 
had replied that he heard that Lottie and 
the boy were both doing well. “They 
say that the child is a regular Blake, just 
like Lottie herself,’’ said Godfrey, “and 
doesn’t look like a Thorne at all.’’ Per- 
cival thought, not unkindly, of Lottie’s 
boy, of Lottie’s great clear eyes in an 
innocent baby face, and imagined him 
growing up slim and tall, to range the 
woods of Brackenhill in future years 
as Lottie herself had wandered in the 
copses about Fordborough. And yet 
sometimes he could not but think of the 
change that it might make if little James 
William Thorne were to die. Horace 
was very ill, they said : Brackenhill was 
shut up, and they had all gone to win- 
ter abroad. The doctors had declared 
that there was not a chance for him in 
England. 

At this time Percival kept a sort of 
rough diary. Here is a leaf from it : 
“ I am much troubled by a certain little 
devil who comes as soon as I am safely 
in bed and sits on my pillow. He flat- 
tens it abominably, or else I do it my- 
self tossing about in my impatience. 
He is quite still for a minute or two, 
and I try my best to think he isn’t there 
at all. Then he stoops down and whis- 
pers in my ear ‘ Convulsions!’ and starts 
up again like india-rubber. I won’t lis- 
ten. I recall some tune or other : it 
won’t come, and there is a hitch, a hor- 
rible blank, in the midst of which he is 
down again — I knew he would be — sug- 
gesting ‘ Croup,’ I repeat some bit of a 
poem, but it won’t do : what is the next 
line ? I think of old days with my father, 
when I knew nothing of Brackenhill : I 
try to remember my mother’s face. I am 
getting on very well, but all at once I be- 
come conscious that he has been for some 
time murmuring, as to himself, ‘ Whoop- 


**FOR PERCIVALF 


183 


ing-cough and scarlet fever — scarlet fe- 
ver.’ I grow fierce, and say, ‘ I pray God 
he may escape them all !’ To which he 
softly replies, ‘ His grandfather died — his 
father is dying — of decline.’ 

" I roll over to the other side, and en- 
counter him or his twin brother there. 
A perfectly silent little devil this time, 
with a faculty for calling up pictures. 
He shows me the office : I see it, 1 smell 
it, with its flaring gaslights and sickly at- 
mosphere. Then he shows me the long 
drawing-room at Brackenhill, the quaint 
old furniture, the pictures on the walls, 
the terrace with its balustrade and balls 
of mossy stone, and through the win- 
dows come odors of jasmine and roses 
and far-off fields, while inside there is the 
sweetness of dried blossoms and spices in 
the great china jars. A moment more 
and it is Bellevue street, with its rows 
of hideous whited houses. And then 
again it is a river, curving swiftly and 
grandly between its castled rocks, or a 
bridge of many arches in the twilight, 
and the lights coming out one by one 
in the old walled town, and the road 
and river travelling one knows not 
where, into regions just falling asleep 
in the quiet dusk. Or there is a holi- 
day crowd, a moonlit ferry, steep wood- 
ed hills, and songs and laughter which 
echo in the streets and float across the 
tide. Or the Alps, keenly cut against 
the infinite depth of blue, with a white- 
ness and a far-off glory no tongue can 
utter. Or a solemn cathedral, or a busy 
town piled up, with church and castle 
high aloft and a still, transparent lake 
below. But through it all, and under- 
lying it all, is Bellevue street, with the 
dirty men and women, who scream and 
shout at each other and wrangle in its 
filthy courts and alleys. Still, God knows 
that I don’t repent, and that I wish my 
little cousin well.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

WANTED — AN ORGANIST. 

In later days Percival looked back to 
that Christmas as his worst and darkest 
time. His pride had grown morbid, and 


he swore to himself that he would never 
give in — that Horace should never know 
him otherwise than self-sufficient, should 
never think that but for Mrs. Middle- 
ton’s or Godfrey Hammond’s charity he 
might have had his cousin as a pension- 
er. Brooding on thoughts such as these, 
he sauntered moodily beneath the lamps 
when the new year was but two days old. 

His progress was stopped by a little 
crowd collected on the pavement. There 
was a concert, and a string of carriages 
stretched halfway down the street. Just 
as Percival came up, a girl in white and 
amber, with flowers in her hair, flitted 
hurriedly across the path and up the 
steps, and stood glancing back while a 
fair -haired, faultlessly -dressed young 
man helped her mother to alight. The 
father came last, sleek, stout and im- 
portant. The old people went on in 
front, and the girl followed with her 
cavalier, looking up at him and mak- 
ing some bright little speech as they 
vanished into the building. Percival 
stood and gazed for a moment, then 
turned round and hurried out of the 
crowd. The grace and freshness and 
happy beauty of the girl had roused a 
fierce longing in his heart. He wanted 
to touch a lady’s hand again, to hear 
the delicate accents of a lady’s voice. 
He remembered how he used to dress 
himself as that fair-haired young man 
was dressed, and escort Aunt Harriet 
and Sissy to Fordborough entertain- 
ments, where the best places were al- 
ways kept for the Brackenhill party. It 
was dull enough sometimes, yet how he 
longed for one such evening now — to 
hand the cups once again at afternoon 
tea, to talk just a little with some girl on 
the old terms of equality ! The longing 
was not the less real, and even passion- 
ate, that it seemed to Thorne himself to 
be utterly absurd. He mocked at him- 
self as he walked the streets for a couple 
of hours, and then went back when the 
concert was just over and the people 
coming away. He watched till the girl 
appeared. She looked a little tired, he 
fancied. As she came out into the chill 
night air she drew a soft white cloak 
round her, and went by, quite uncon- 


**FOR PERCIVALr 


184 

scious of the dark young man who stood 
near the door and followed her with his 
eyes. The sombre apparition might have 
startled her had she noticed it, though 
Percival was only gazing at the ghost of 
his dead life, and, having seen it, disap- 
peared into the shadows once more. 

‘‘The night is darkest before the morn.” 
In Percival’s case this was true, for the 
next day brought a new interest and hope. 
A letter came from Godfrey Hammond, 
through which he glanced wearily till he 
came to a paragraph about the Lisles : 
Hammond had seen a good deal of them 
lately. ‘‘Their father treated you shame- 
fully,” he wrote, ‘‘but, after all, it is hard- 
er still on his children.” (‘‘Good Heav- 
ens ! Does he suppose I have a grudge 
against them?” said Percival to himself, 
and laughed with mingled irritation and 
amazement.) ‘‘Young Lisle wants a sit- 
uation as organist somewhere where he 
might give lessons and make an income 
so, but we can’t hear of anything suitable. 
People say the boy is a musical genius, 
and will do wonders, but, for my part, I 
doubt it. He may, however, and in that 
case there will be a line in his biography 
to the effect that I ‘ was one of the first 
to discern,’ etc., which may be gratifying 
to me in my second childhood.” 

Percival laid the letter on the table 
and looked up with kindling eyes. 

Only a few minutes’ walk from Belle- 
vue street was St. Sylvester’s, a large 
district church. The building was a dis- 
tinguished example of cheap ecclesias- 
tical work, with stripes and other pretty 
patterns in different colored bricks, and 
varnished deal fittings and patent cor- 
rugated roofing. All that could be done 
to stimulate devotion by means of texts 
painted in red and blue had been done, 
and St. Sylvester’s, within and without, 
was one of those nineteenth -century 
churches which will doubtless be stud- 
ied with interest and wonder by the ar- 
chitect of a future age if they can only 
contrive to stand up till he comes. The 
incumbent was High Church, as a mat- 
ter of course, and musical, more than as 
a matter of course. Percival looked up 
from his letter with a sudden remem- 
brance that Mr. Clifton was advertising 


for an organist, and on his way to the 
office he stopped to make inquiries at 
the High Church bookseller’s and to 
post a line to Hammond. How if this 
should suit Bertie Lisle ? He tried hard 
not to think too much about it, but the 
mere possibility that the bright young 
fellow, with his day-dreams, his unfin- 
ished opera, his pleasant voice and hap- 
pily thoughtless talk, might come into 
his life gave Percival a new interest in 
it. Bertie had been a favorite of his 
years before, when he used to go some- 
times to Mr. Lisle’s. He still thought of 
him as little more than a boy — the boy 
who used to play to him in the twilight 
— and he had some trouble to realize 
that Bertie must be nearly two and twen- 
ty. If he should come — But most likely 
he would not come. It seemed a shame 
even to wish to shut up the young musi- 
cian, with his love for all that was beau- 
tiful and bright, in that grimy town. 
Thorne resolved that he would not wish 
it, but he opened Hammond’s next let- 
ter with unusual eagerness. Godfrey said 
they thought it sounded well, especially 
as when he named Brenthill it appeared 
that the Lisles had some sort of acquaint- 
ance living there, an old friend of theil 
mother’s, he believed, which naturally 
gave them an interest in the place. Ber- 
tie had written to Mr. Clifton, who would 
very shortly be in town, and had made an 
appointment to meet him. 

The next news came in a note from 
Lisle himself. On the first page there 
was a pen-and-ink portrait of the in- 
cumbent of St. Sylvester’s with a nim- 
bus, and it was elaborately dated ‘‘Fes- 
tival of St. Hilary.” 

‘‘ It is all as good as settled,” was his 
triumphant announcement, ‘‘ and we are 
in luck’s way, for Judith thinks she has 
heard of something for herself too. You 
will see from my sketch that I have had 
my interview with Mr. Clifton. He is 
quite delighted with me. A great judge 
of character, that man ! He is to write 
to one or two references I gave him, but 
they are sure to be all right, for my 
friends have been so bored with me and 
my prospects for the last few weeks that 
they would swear to my fitness for heav- 


pefcival: 


185 


en if it would only send me there. I ra- 
ther think, however, that St. Sylvester’s 
will suit me better for a little while. His 
Reverence is going to look me up some 
pupils, and I have bought a Church- 
man’s almanac, and am thinking about 
starting an oratorio instead of my opera. 
Wasn’t it strange that when your letter 
came from Brenthill we should remem- 
ber that an old friend of my mother’s 
lived there ? Judith and she have been 
writing to each other ever since. Clifton 
is evidently undergoing tortures with the 
man he has got now, so I should not won- 
der if we are at Brenthill in a few days. 
It will be better for my chance of pupils 
too. I shall look you up without fail, and 
expect you to know everything about 
lodgings. How about Bellevue street ? 
Are you far from St. Sylvester’s.?” 

Thorne read the letter carefully, and 
drew from it two conclusions and a per- 
plexity. He concluded that Bertie Lisle’s 
elastic spirits had quickly recovered the 
shock of his father’s failure and flight, 
and that he had not the faintest idea 
that any property of his — Percival’s — 
had gone down in the wreck. So much 
the better. 

His perplexity was. What was Miss 
Lisle going to do ? Could the “we” who 
were to arrive imply that she meant to 
accompany her brother ? And what was 
the something she had heard of for her- 
self? The words haunted him. Was the 
ruin so complete that she too must face 
the world and earn her own living ? A 
sense of cruel wrong stirred in his in- 
most soul. 

He made up his mind at last that she 
was coming to establish Bertie in his 
lodgings before she went on her own 
way. He offered any help in his power 
when he answered the letter, but he add- 
ed a postscript: “Don’t think of Bellevue 
street: you wouldn’t like it.” He heard 
no more till one day he came back to his 
early dinner and found a sealed enve- 
lope on his table. It contained a half 
sheet of paper, on which Bertie had 
scrawled in pencil, “Why did you abuse 
Bellevue street? We think it will do. 
And why didn’t you say there were 
rooms in this very house ? We have 


taken them, so there is an end of your 
peaceful solitude. I’m going to practise 
for ever and ever. If you don’t like it 
there’s no reason why you shouldn’t 
leave : it’s a fr<e country, they say.” 

Percival looked round his room. She 
had been there, then ? — perhaps had stood 
where he was standing. His glance fell 
on the turquoise-blue vase and the arti- 
ficial flowers, and he colored as if he were 
Lydia’s accomplice. Had she seen those 
and the Language of Flowers ? 

As if his thought had summoned her, 
Lydia herself appeared to lay the cloth for 
his dinner. She looked quickly round : 
“ Did you see your note, Mr. Thorne ?” 

“Thank you, yes,” said Percival. 

“ I supposed it was right to show them 
in here to write it — wasn’t it?” she asked 
after a pause. “He said he knew you 
very well.” 

“Quite right, certainly.” 

“A very pleasant-spoken young gen- 
tleman, ain’t he ?” said Miss Bryant, set- 
ting down a salt-cellar. 

“Very,” said Percival. 

“Coming to play the High Church or- 
gan, he tells me,” Lydia continued, as if 
the instrument in question were somehow 
saturated with ritualism. 

“Yes — at St. Sylvester’s.” 

Lydia looked at him, but he was gaz- 
ing into the fire. She went out, came 
back with a dish, shook her curl out of 
the way, and tried again : “ I suppose 
we’re to thank you for recommending 
the lodgings — ain’t we, Mr. Thorne? 
I’m sure ma’s much obliged to you. 
And I’m glad” — this with a bashful 
glance — “that you felt you could. It 
seems as if we’d given satisfaction.” 

“Certainly,” said Percival. “But you 
mustn’t thank me in this case. Miss Bry- 
ant. I really didn’t know what sort of 
lodgings my friend wanted. But of 
course I’m glad Mr. Lisle is coming 
here.” 

“And ain’t you glad Miss Lisle is 
coming too, Mr. Thorne?” said Lydia 
very archly. But she watched him, 
lynx-eyed. 

He uttered no word of surprise, but he 
could not quite control the muscles of his 
face, and a momentary light leapt into 


*'FOR PERCIVALF 


1 86 

his eyes. “I wasn’t aware Miss Lisle 
luas coming,” he said. 

Lydia believed him. “That’s true,” 
she thought, “but you’re precious glad.” 
And she added aloud, ‘iThen the pleas- 
ure comes all the more unexpected, don’t 
it?” She looked sideways at Percival 
and lowered her voice : “ P’r’aps Miss 
Lisle meant a little surprise.” 

Percival returned her glance with a 
grave scorn which she hardly under- 
stood. “My dinner is ready ?” he said. 
“Thank you. Miss Bryant.” And Lyd- 
ia flounced out of the room, half indig- 
nant, half sorrowful : "He didn’t know — 
that’s true. But she knows what she’s 
after, very well. Don’t tell me!” To 
Lydia, at this moment, it seemed as if 
every girl must be seeking what she 
sought. “And I call it very bold of her 
to come poking herself where she isn’t 
wanted — running after a young man. 
I’d be ashamed.” A longing to scratch 
Miss Lisle’s face was mixed with a long- 
ing to have a good cry, for she was hon- 
estly suffering the pangs of unrequited 
love. It is true that it was not for the 
first time. The curl, the earrings, the 
songs, the Language of Flowers, had 
done duty more than once before. But 
wounds may be painful without being 
deep, although the fact of these former 
healings might prevent all fear of any 
fatal ending to this later love. Lydia 
was very unhappy as she went down 
stairs, though if another hero could be 
found she was perhaps half conscious 
that the melancholy part of her present 
love-story might be somewhat abridged. 

The streets seemed changed to Perci- 
val as he went back to his work. Their 
ugliness was as bare and as repulsive as 
ever, but he understood now that the 
houses might hold human beings, his 
brothers and his sisters, since some one 
roof among them sheltered Judith Lisle. 
Thus he emerged from the alien swarm 
amid which he had walked in solitude so 
many days. Above the dull and miry 
ways were the beauty of her gray-blue 
eyes and the glory of her golden hair. 
He felt as if a white dove had lighted 
on the town, yet he laughed at his own 
feelings ; for what did he know of her ? 


He had seen her twice, and her father 
had swindled him out of his money. 

Never had his work seemed so tedious, 
and never had he hurried so quickly to 
Bellevue street as he did when it was 
over. The door of No. 13 stood open, 
and young Lisle stood on the threshold. 
There was no mistaking him. His face 
had changed from the beautiful choris- 
ter type of two or three years earlier, but 
Percival thought him handsomer than 
ever. He ceased his soft whistling and 
held out his hand : “ Thorne I At last I I 
was looking out for you the other way.” 

Thorne could hardly find time to greet 
him before he questioned eagerly, “You 
have really taken the rooms here ?” 

“Really and truly. What’s wrong? 
Anything against the landlady?” 

“No,” said Percival. “She’s honest 
enough, and fairly obliging, and all the 
rest of it. But then your sister is not 
coming here to live with you, as they 
told me? That was a mistake?” 

“ Not a bit of it. She’s coming : in 
fact, she’s here.” 

“In Bellevue street?” Percival look- 
ed up and down the dreary thorough- 
fare. “ But, Lisle, what a place to bring 
her to !” 

“Beggars mustn’t be choosers,” said 
Bertie. “We are not exactly what you 
would call rolling in riches just now. 
And Bellevue street happens to be about 
midway between St. Sylvester’s and Stan- 
don Square, so it will suit us both.” 

“Standon Square?” Percival repeated. 

“ Yes. Oh, didn’t I tell you ? My moth- 
er came to school at Brenthill. It was her 
old schoolmistress we remembered lived 
here when we had your letter. So we 
wrote to her, and the old dear not only 
promised me some pupils, but it is set- 
tled that Judith is to go and teach there 
every day. Judith thinks we ought to 
stick to one another, we two.” 

“You’re a lucky fellow,” said Perci- 
val. “ You don’t know, and won’t know, 
what loneliness is here.” 

“ But how do you come to know any- 
thing about it ? That’s what I can’t un- 
derstand. I thought your grandfather 
died last summer?” 

“So he did.” 


SHE DREW A SOFT WHITE CLOAK ROUND HER, AND WENT BY,” — Page 183. 


^^FOR' PERCIVALF 


187 


"But I thought you were to come in 
for no end of money ?’’ 


" I didn’t, you see." 

" But surely he always allowed you a 



lot,” said Lisle, still unsatisfied. "You 
never used to talk of doing anything.” 


" No, but I found I must. The fact is, 
I’m not on the best terms with my cou- 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


1 88 

sin at Brackenhill, and I made up my 
mind to be independent. Consequently, 
I’m a clerk — a copying-clerk, you under- 
stand — in a lawyer’s office here — Fer- 
guson’s in Fisher street — and I lodge 
accordingly.” 

‘‘I’m very sorry,” said Bertie. 

“ Hammond knows all about it,” the 
other went on, ‘‘but nobody else does.” 

‘‘ I was afraid there was something 
wrong,” said Bertie — ‘‘wrong for you, I 
mean. From our point of view it is 
very lucky that circumstances have sent 
you here. But I hope your prospects 
may brighten ; not directly — I can’t 
manage to hope that — but soon.” 

Percival smiled. ‘‘ Meanwhile,” he 
said with a quiet earnestness of tone, 
‘‘if there is anything I can do to help 
you or Miss Lisle, you will let me do it.” 

‘‘Certainly,” said Bertie. ‘‘We are go- 
ing out now to look for a grocer. Sup- 
pose you come and show us one.” 

‘‘I’m very much at your service. What 
are you looking at?” 

‘‘Why — you’ll pardon my mentioning 
it — you have got the biggest smut on 
your left cheek that I’ve seen since I 
came here. They attain to a remark- 
able size in Brenthill, have you noticed?” 
Bertie spoke with eager interest, as if he 
had become quite a connoisseur in smuts. 
‘‘Yes, that’s it. I’ll look Judith up, and 
tell her you are going with us.” 

Percival fled up stairs, more discom- 
posed by that unlucky black than he 
would have thought possible. When 
he had made sure that he was tolerably 
presentable he waited by his open door 
till his fellow-lodgers appeared, and then 
stepped out on the landing to meet them. 
Miss Lisle, dressed very simply in black, 
stood drawing on her glove. A smile 
dawned on her face when her eyes met 
Percival’s, and, greeting him in her low 
distinct tones, she held out her white 
right hand, still ungloved. He took it 
with grave reverence, for Judith Lisle 
had once touched his faint dream of a 
woman who should be brave with sweet 
heroism, tender and true. They had 
scarcely exchanged a dozen words in 
their lives, but he had said to himself, 
‘‘If I were an artist I would paint my 


ideal with a face like that;” and the 
memory, with its underlying poetry, 
sprang to life again as his glance en- 
countered hers. Percival felt the vague 
poem, though Bertie was at his elbow 
chattering about shops, and though he 
himself had hardly got over the intol- 
erable remembrance of that smut. 

When they were in the street Miss 
Lisle looked eagerly about her, and ask- 
ed as they turned a corner, ‘‘ Will this be 
our way to St. Sylvester’s ?” 

"Yes. I suppose Bertie will make his 
debut next Sunday ? I must come and 
hear him.” 

"Of course you must,” said Lisle. 
“Where do you generally go?” 

" Well, for a walk generally. Some- 
times it ends in some outlying church, 
sometimes not.” 

" Oh, but it’s your duty to attend your 
parish church when I play there. I 
suppose St. Sylvester’s is your parish 
church ?” 

" Not a bit of it. St. Andrew’s occu- 
pies that proud position. I’ve been there 
three times, I think.” 

“And what sort of a place is that?” 
said Miss Lisle. 

“The dreariest, dustiest, emptiest place 
imaginable,” Percival answered, turning 
quickly toward her. “There’s an old 
clergyman, without a tooth in his head, 
who mumbles something which the con- 
gregation seem to take for granted is the 
service. Perhaps he means it for that : 
I don’t know. He’s the curate, I think, 
come to help the rector, who is getting 
just a little past his work. I don’t re- 
member that I ever saw the rector.” 

“But does any one go?” 

“Well, there’s the clerk,” said Perci- 
val thoughtfully; “and there’s a weekly 
dole of bread left to fourteen poor men 
and fourteen poor women of the parish. 
They must be of good character and 
above the age of sixty-five. It is given 
away after the afternoon service. When 
I have been there, there has always been 
a congregation of thirty, without reckon- 
ing the clergyman.” He paused in his 
walk. “ Didn’t you want a grocer. Miss 
Lisle ? I don’t do much of my shopping, 
but I believe this place is as good as any.” 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


189 


Judith went in, and the two young- 
men waited outside. In something less 
than half a minute Lisle showed signs 
of impatience. He inspected the gro- 
cer’s stock of goods through the window, 
and extended his examination to a toy- 
shop beyond, where he seemed partic- 
ularly interested in a small and curly 
lamb which stood in a pasture of green 
paint and possessed an underground 
squeak or baa. Finally, he returned to 
Thorne. “You like waiting, don’t you?’’ 
he said. 

“ 1 don’t mind it.’’ 

“And I do: that’s just the difference. 
Is there a stationer’s handy ?’’ 

“At the end of the street, the first turn- 
ing to the left.’’ 

“ I want some music-paper : I can get 
it before Judith has done ordering in her 
supplies if I go at once.’’ 

“ Go, then : you can’t miss it. I’ll wait 
here for Miss Lisle, and we’ll come and 
meet you if you are not back.’’ 

When Judith came out she looked 
round in some surprise : “ What has be- 
come of Bertie, Mr. Thorne ?’’ 

“Gone to the bookseller’s,’’ said Perci- 
val : “ shall walk on and meet him ?’’ 

They went together down the gray, 
slushy street. The wayfarers seemed 
unusually coarse and Jostling that even- 
ing, Percival thought, the pavement pe- 
culiarly miry, the flaring gaslights very 
cruel to the unloveliness of the scene. 

“Mr. Thorne,’’ Judith began, “I am 
glad of this opportunity. We haven’t 
met many times before to-day.’’ 

“Twice,” said Percival. 

She looked at him, a faint light of 
surprise in her eyes. “Ah! twice,” she 
repeated. “ But you know Bertie well. 
You used often to come at one time, 
when I was away ?” 

“ Oh yes, I saw a good deal of Bertie,” 
he replied, remembering how he had 
taken a fancy to the boy. 

“ And he used to talk to me about you. 
I don’t feel as if we were quite strangers, 
Mr. Thorne.” 

“Indeed, I hope not,” said Percival, 
eluding a baker’s boy and reappearing 
at her side. 

■‘I’ve another reason for the feeling. 


too, besides Bertie’s talk,” she went on. 
“Once, six or seven years ago, I saw 
your father. He came in one evening, 
about some business I think, and I still 
remember the very tone in which he 
talked of you. I was only a school-girl 
then, but I could not help understand- 
ing something of what you were to him.” 

“ He was too good to me,” said Perci- 
val, and his heart was very full. Those 
bygone days with his father, which had 
drifted so far into the past, seemed sud- 
denly brought near by Judith’s words, 
and he felt the warmth of the old ten- 
derness once more. 

“ So I was very glad to find you here,” 
she said. “For Bertie’s sake, not for 
yours. I am so grieved that you should 
have been so unfortunate I” She looked 
up at him with eyes which questioned 
and wondered and doubted all at once. 

But a small girl, staring at the shop- 
windows, drove a perambulator straight 
at Percival’s legs. With a laugh he 
stepped into the roadway to escape the 
peril, and came back : “ Don’t grieve 
about me, Miss Lisle. It couldn’t be 
helped, and I have no right to com- 
plain.” These were his spoken words: 
his unspoken thought was that it served 
him right for being such a fool as to trust 
her father. “ It’s worse for you, I think, 
and harder,” he went on; “and if you 
are so brave — ” 

“It’s for Bertie if I am,” she said quick- 
ly : “it is very hard on him. We have 
spoilt him. I’m afraid, and now he will 
feel it so terribly. For people cannot be 
the same to us : how should they, Mr. 
Thorne ? Some of our friends have been 
very good — no one could be kinder than 
Miss Crawford — but it is a dreadful change 
for Bertie. And I have been afraid of 
what he would do if he went where he 
had no companions. A sister is so help- 
less ! So I was very thankful when your 
letter came. But I am sorry for you, Mr. 
Thorne. He told me just now — ” 

“ But, as that can’t be helped,” said 
Percival, “be glad for my sake too. I 
have been very lonely.” 

She looked up at him and smiled. “He 
insisted on going to Bellevue street the 
first thing this morning,” she said. “I 


FOR PERCIVALF 


(( 


190 

don’t think any other lodgings would 
have suited him.” 

“But they are not good enough for 
you.” 

“Oh yes, they are, and near Standon 
Square, too : I shall only have seven or 
eight minutes’ walk to my work. I should 
not have liked — Oh, here he is ! — Ber- 
tie, this is cool of you, deserting me in 
this fashion !” 

“Why, of course you were all right 
with Thorne, and he asked me to let 
him help me in any way he could. I 
like to take a man at his word.” 

“ By all means take me at mine,” said 
Percival. 

“ Help you ?” said Judith to her broth- 
er. “Am I such a terrible burden, then ?” 

“No,” Thorne exclaimed. “Bertie is 
a clever fellow : he lets me share his 
privileges first, that I mayn’t back out 
of sharing any troubles later.” 

“Are you going to save him trouble 
by making his pretty speeches for him, 
too?” Judith inquired with a smile. “You 
are indeed a friend in need.” 

They had turned back, and were walk- 
ing toward Bellevue street. As they went 
into No. 13 they encountered Miss Bry- 
ant in the passage. She glanced loftily 
at Miss Lisle as she swept by, but she 
turned and fixed a look of reproachful 
tenderness oh Percival Thorne. He 
knew that he was guiltless in the mat- 
ter, and yet in Judith’s presence he felt 
guilty and humiliated beneath Lydia’s 
ostentatiously mournful gaze. The idea 
that she would probably be jealous of 
Miss Lisle flashed into his mind, to his 
utter disgust and dismay. He turned 
into his own room and flung himself 
into a chair, only to find, a few minutes 
later, that he was staring blankly at 
Lydia’s blue vase. But for the Lisles, 
he might almost have been driven from 
Bellevue street by its mere presence on 
the table. It was beginning to haunt 
him : it mingled in his dreams, and he 
had drawn its hideous shape absently on 
the edge of his blotting-paper. Let him be 
where he might, it lay, a light-blue burden, 
on his mind. It was not the vase only, but 
he felt that it implied Lydia herself, curl, 
turquoise earrings, smile and all, and on 


the evening of his meeting with Judith 
Lisle the thought was doubly hateful. 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 
LYDIA REARRANGES HER CAP. 

Thus, as the days lengthened, and the 
winter, bitter though it was, began to give 
faint promise of sunlight to come, Per- 
cival entered on his new life and felt the 
gladness of returning spring. At the be- 
ginning of winter our glances are back- 
ward : we are like spendthrifts who have 
wasted all in days of bygone splendor. 
We sit, pinched and poverty-stricken, by 
our little light of fire and candle, remem- 
bering how the whole land was full of 
warmth and golden gladness in our 
lavish prime. But our feelings change as 
the days grow clear and keen and long. 
This very year has yet to wear its crown 
of. blossom. Its inheritance is to come, 
and all is fresh and wonderful. We 
would not ask the bygone summer for 
one day more, for we have the beauty 
of promise, instead of that beauty of 
long triumph which is heavy and over- 
ripe, and with March at hand we can- 
not desire September. 

Percival’s new life was cold and stern 
as the February weather, but it had its 
flitting gleams of grace and beauty in 
brief words or passing looks exchanged 
with Judith Lisle. He was no lover, to 
pine for more than Fate vouchsafed. It 
seemed to him that the knowledge that 
he might see her was almost enough ; 
and it was well it should be so, for he 
met her very seldom. She went regu- 
larly to Standon Square, and came home 
late and tired. She had one half-holi- 
day in the week, but Miss Crawford had 
recommended her to a lady whose eld- 
est girl was dull and backward at her 
music, and she spent a great part of that 
afternoon in teaching Janie Barton. Ber- 
tie was indignant : “ Why should you, 
who have an ear and a soul for music, 
be tortured by such an incapable as 
that? Let them find some one else to 
teach her.” 

“ And some one else to take the mon- 
ey! Besides, Mrs. Barton is so kind- -” 


^^FOR PERCIVALR 


Bertie, who was lying on three chairs 
in front of the fire, sat up directly and 
looked resigned : " That’s it ! now for it ! 
No one is so good as Mrs. Barton, except 
Miss Crawford ; and no one is anything 
like Miss Crawford, except Mrs. Barton. 
Oh, I know ! And old Clifton is the first 
and best of men. And so you lavish 
your gratitude on them — Judith, why 
are all our benefactors such awful guys ? 
— while they ought to be thanking their 
stars they’ve got us !” 

"Nonsense, Bertie !’’ 

" ’Tisn’t nonsense. Aren’t you better 
than I am ? And old Clifton is very lucky 
to get such an organist. I think he is 
thankful, but I wish he* wouldn’t show 
it by asking me to tea again.’’ 

" Don’t complain of Mr. Clifton,’’ said 
Judith. "You are very fortunate, if you 
only knew it.’’ 

"Am I ? Then suppose you go to tea 
with him if you are so fond of him. I 
rather think I shall have a severe cold 
coming on next Tuesday.’’ 

Judith said no more, being tolerably 
sure that when Tuesday came Bertie 
would go. But she was not quite hap- 
py about him. She lived as if she idol- 
ized the spoilt boy, but the blindness 
which makes idolatry joyful was denied 
to her. So that, though he was her first 
thought every day of her life, the thought 
was an anxious one. She was very grate- 
I ful to Miss Crawford for having given 
him a chance, so young and untried as 
he was, but she could only hope that 
Bertie would not repay her kindness by 
some thoughtless neglect. At present 
all had gone well: there could be no 
question about his abilities, Miss Craw- 
ford was satisfied, and the young master 
got on capitally with his pupils. Neither 
was Judith happy when he was with Mr. 
Clifton. Bertie came home to mimic the 
clergyman with boyish recklessness, and 
she feared that the same kind of thing 
went on with some of the choir behind 
Mr. Clifton’s back. (" Behind his back ?’’ 
Bertie said one day. "Under his nose, if 
you like: it would be all one to Clifton.’’) 
He frightened her with his carelessness 
in money-matters and his scarcely con- 
cealed contempt for the means by which 


191 

he lived. "Thank Heaven ! this hasn’t 
got to last for ever,’’ he said once when 
she remonstrated. 

" Don’t reckon on anything else,’’ she 
pleaded. " I know what you are think- 
ing of. Oh, Bertie, I don’t like you to 
count on that.’’ 

He threw back his head, and laugh- 
ed : " Well, if that fails, wait and see 
what I can do for myself.’’ 

He looked so bright and daring as 
he spoke that she could hardly help 
sharing his confidence. "Ah! the ope- 
ra!’’ she said. "But, Bertie, you must 
work.’’ 

"The opera — Yes, of course I will 
work,’’ Bertie answered. "Now you men- 
tion it, it strikes me I may as well have 
a pipe and think about it a bit. No time 
like the present, is there ?’’ So Bertie 
had his pipe and a little quiet meditation. 
There was a lingering smile on his face 
as if something had amused him. He 
always felt particularly virtuous when he 
smoked his pipe, because it was so much 
more economical than the cigars of his 
prosperous days. "A penny saved is a 
penny gained.’’ Bertie felt as if he must 
be gradually making his fortune as he 
leant back and watched the smoke curl 
upward. 

And yet, with it all, how could Judith 
complain ? He was the very life of the 
house as he ran up and down stairs, fill- 
ing the dingy passages with melodious 
singing. He had a bright word for ev- 
ery one. The grimy little maid-servant 
would have died for him at a moment’s 
notice. Bertie was always sweet-temper- 
ed : in very truth, there was not a touch 
of bitterness in his nature. And he was 
so fond of Judith, so proud of her, so 
thoroughly convinced of her goodness, 
so sure that he should do great things 
for her some day ! What could she say 
against him ? 

Percival, too, was fascinated. His 
room smelt of Bertie’s tobacco and was 
littered with blotted manuscripts. He 
went so regularly to hear Bertie play 
that Mr. Clifton noticed the olive-skin- 
ned, foreign-looking young man, and 
thought of asking him to join the Guild 
of St. Sylvester and take a class in the 


192 


'^FOR percival: 


Sunday-school. Yet Percival also had 
doubts about the young organist’s fu- 
ture. He knew that letters came now 
and then from New York which sadden- 
ed Judith and brightened Bertie. If Mr. 
Lisle prospered in America and sum- 
moned his son to share his success, 
would he have strength to cling to pov- 
erty and honor in England ? There were 
times when Percjval doubted it. There 
were times, too, when he doubted wheth- 
er the boy’s musical promise would ever 
ripen to worthy fruit, though he was an- 
gry with himself for his doubts. “ If he 
triumphs, it will be her doing,” he thought. 
Little as he saw of Judith, they were yet 
becoming friends. You may meet a man 
every day, and if you only talk to him 
about the weather and the leading arti- 
cles in the Times, you may die of old age 
before you reach friendship. But these 
two talked of more than the weather. 
Once, emboldened by her remembrance 
of old days, he spoke of his father. He 
hardly noticed at the time that Judith 
took keen note of something he said of 
the old squire’s utter separation from his 
son. ” I was more Percival than Thorne 
till I was twenty,” said he. 

“And are you not more Percival than 
Thorne still ?” 

He liked to hear her say “Percival” 
even thus. “Perhaps,” he said. “But 
it is strange how I’ve learned to care 
about Brackenhill — or, rather, it wasn’t 
learning, it came by instinct — and now 
no place on earth seems like home to 
me except that old house.” 

Judith, fair and clear -eyed, leaned 
against the window and looked out into 
the twilight. After a pause she spoke : 
“You are fortunate, Mr. Thorne. You 
can look back happily to your life with 
your father.” 

The intention of her speech was evi- 
dent : so was a weariness which he had 
sometimes suspected in her voice. He 
answered her: “And you cannot?” 

“No,” she said. “I was wondering 
just now how many people had reason 
to hate the name of Lisle.” 

Percival was not unconscious of the 
humorous side of such a remark when 
addressed to himself. But Judith look- 


ed at him almost as if she would sur- 
prise his thought. 

“ Don’t dwell on such things,” he said. 
“ Men in your father’s position speculate, 
and perhaps hardly know how deeply 
they are involved, till nothing but a 
lucky chance will save them, and it 
seems impossible to do anything but go 
on. At last the end comes, and it is 
very terrible. But you can’t mend it.” 

“No,” said Judith, “I can’t.” 

“Then don’t take up a useless burden 
when you need all your strength. You 
were not to blame in any way.” 

“No,” she said again, “I hope not. 
But it is hard to be so helpless. I do 
not even know their names. I can only 
feel as if I ought to be more gentle and 
more patient with every ope, since any 
one may be — ” 

“Ah, Miss Lisle,” said Percival, “you 
will pay some of the debts unawares in 
something better than coin.” 

She shook her head, but when she 
looked up at him there was a half smile 
on her lips. As she moved away Per- 
cival thought of Sissy’s old talk about 
heroic women — “Jael, and Judith, and 
Charlotte Corday.” He felt that this 
girl would have gone to her death with 
quiet dignity had there been need. God- 
frey Hammond had called her a plain 
likeness of her brother, but Percival had 
seen at the first glance that her face was 
worth infinitely more than Bertie’s, even 
in his boyish promise ; and an artist 
would have turned from the brother to 
the sister, justifying Percival. 

It was well for Percival that Judith’s 
friendly smile and occasional greeting 
made bright moments in his life, since 
he had no more of Lydia’s attentions. 
Poor grimy little Emma waited on him 
wearily, and always neglected him if the 
Lisles wanted her. She had apparently 
laid in an immense stock of goods, for 
she never went shopping now, but stay- 
ed at home and let his fire go out, and 
was late and slovenly with his meals. 
There was no great dishonesty, but his 
tea-caddy was no longer guarded and 
provisions ceased to be mysteriously pre- 
served. Miss Bryant seldom met him on 
the stairs, and when she did she flounced 


“/'OA’ PERCIVALr 


i past him in lofty scorn. Her slighted 
love had turned to gall. She was bit- 
ter in her very desire to convince herself 
that she had never thought of Mr. Thorne. 

; She neglected to send up his letters ; she 
' would not lift a finger to help in getting 
! his dinner ready; and if Emma happen- 
i ed to be out of the way she would let his 
bell ring and take no notice. Yet she 
would have been very true to him, in 
her own fashion, if he would have had 
it so : she would have taken him for bet- 
ter, for worse — would have slaved for him 
and fought for him, and never suffered 
any one else to find fault with him in 
any way whatever. But he had not cho- 
sen that it should be so, and Lydia had 
reclaimed her heart and her pocket edi- 
tion of the Language of Flowers, and 
now watched Percival and Miss Lisle 
with spiteful curiosity. 

“ I shall be late at Standon Square this 
evening : Miss Crawford wants me,” said 
Judith one morning to .her brother. 

‘‘I’ll come and meet you,” was his 
prompt reply. ‘‘What time? Don’t let 
that old woman work you into an early 
grave.” 

‘‘ There’s no fear of that. I’m strong, 
and it won’t hurt me. Suppose you come 
at half-past nine : you must have your tea 
, by yourself. I’m afraid.” 

; ‘‘That’s all right,” he answered cheer- 
fully. 

! ‘‘ ‘ That’s all right ?’ What do you 

1 mean by that, sir?” 

‘‘ I mean that I don’t at all mind 
when you don’t come back to tea. I 
think I rather prefer it. There, Miss 
; Lisle!” 

i ‘‘You rude boy!” She felt herself 
I quite justified in boxing his ears. 

I ‘‘Oh, I say, hold hard! Mind my vio- 
lets !” he exclaimed. 

‘‘Your violets? Oh, how sweet they 
are !” And bending forward, Judith 
smelt them daintily. ‘‘Where did you 
get them, Bertie?” 

‘‘Ah ! where ?” And Bertie stood be- 
fore the glass and surveyed himself. The 
cheap lodging-house mirror cast a green- 
ish shade over his features, but the little 
bouquet in his buttonhole came out very 
well. ” Wherfe did I get them ? I didn’t 

13 


t93 

buy them, if you mean that. They were 
given to me.” 

‘‘Who gave them to you ?” 

‘‘And then women say it isn’t fair to 
call them curious !” Bertie put his head 
on one side, dropped his eyelids, looked 
out of the corners of his eyes, and smiled, 
fingering an imaginary curl. 

‘‘Not that nasty Miss Bryant? She 
didn’t !” 

‘‘She did, though.” 

‘‘ The wretch ! Then you sha’n’t wear 
them one moment more.” Bertie eluded 
her attack, and stood laughing on the 
other side of the table. ‘‘Oh, Bertie!” 
suddenly growing very plaintive, ‘‘why 
did you let me smell the nasty things?” • 

‘‘ They are very nice,” said Lisle, look- 
ing down at the poor little violets. ‘‘Oh, 
we are great friends, Lydia and I. I 
shall have buttered toast for tea to- 
night.” 

‘‘ Buttered toast ? What do you mean ?” 

‘‘Why, it’s a curious thing, but Emma 
— isn’t her name Emma ? — always has to 
work like a slave when you go out. I 
don’t know why there should be so much 
more to do : you don’t help her to clean 
the kettles or the steps in the general 
way, do you ? It’s a mystery. Any- 
how, Lydia has to see after my tea, and 
then I have buttered toast or muffins 
and rashers of bacon. Lydia’s atten- 
tions are just a trifle greasy perhaps, 
now I come to think of it. But she 
toasts muffins very well, does that young 
woman, and makes very good tea too.” 

‘‘ Bertie ! I thought you made tea for 
yourself when I was away.” 

‘‘ Oh ! did you ? Not I : why should 
I ? I had some of Mrs. Bryant’s rasp- 
berry jam one night : that wasn’t bad 
for a change. And once I had some 
prawns.” 

‘‘ Oh, Bertie ! How could you ?” 

‘‘Bless you, my child!” said Bertie, 
‘‘how serious you look! Where’s the 
harm ? Do you think I shall make my- 
self ill ? By the way, I wonder if Lydia 
ever made buttered toast for Thorne ? I 
suspect she did, and that he turned up 
his nose at it: she always holds heri 
head so uncommonly high if his name 
is mentioned.” 


194 


^^FOR FERCIVALr 


“ Do throw those violets on the fire,” 
said Judith. 

“ Indeed, I shall do nothing of the kind. 
I’m coming to Standon Square to give 
my lessons this morning, with my vio- 
lets. See if I don’t.” 

The name of Standon Square startled 
Judith into looking at the time. ” I must 
be off,” she said. " Don’t be late for the 
lessons, and oh, Bertie, don’t be foolish!” 

‘‘All right,” he answered gayly. Ju- 
dith ran down stairs. At the door she 
encountered Lydia and eyed her with 
lofty disapproval. It did not seem to 
trouble Miss Bryant much. She knew 
Miss Lisle disliked her, and took it as 
an inevitable fact, if not an indirect com- 
pliment to her conquering charms. So 
she smiled and wished Judith good-morn- 
ing. But she had a sweeter smile for 
Bertie when, a little later, carefully dress- 
ed, radiant, handsome, with her violets in 
his coat, he too went on his way to Stan- 
don Square. 

If Judith had been in Bellevue street 
when he came back, she might have 
noticed that the little bouquet was gone. 
Had it dropped out by accident ? Or 
had Bertie merely defended his violets 
for fun, and thrown them away as soon 
as her back was turned ? Or what had 
happened to them ? There was no one 
to inquire. 

Young Lisle strolled into Percival’s 
room, and found him just come in and 
waiting for his dinner. ‘‘ I’m going to 
practise at St. Sylvester’s this after- 
noon,” said the young fellow. ‘‘What 
do you say to a walk as soon as you 
get away ?” 

Percival assented, and began to move 
some of the books and papers which 
were strewn on the table. Lisle sat on 
the end of the horsehair sofa and watch- 
ed him. ‘‘I can’t think how you can 
endure that blue thing and those awful 
flowers continually before your eyes,” 
he sai'd at last. 

Percival shrugged his shoulders. He 
could not explain to Lisle that to request 
that Lydia’s love-token might be removed 
would have seemed to him to be like go- 
ing down to her level and rejecting what 
he preferred to ignore. ‘‘What am I to 


do ?” he said. ‘‘ I believe they think it 
very beautiful, and I fancy the flowers 
are home-made. People have different 
ideas of art, but shall I therefore wound 
Miss Bryant’s feelings ?” 

” Heaven forbid!” said Bertie. ‘‘Did 
Lydia Bryant make those flowers ? How 
interesting !” He pulled the vase toward 
him for a closer inspection. There was 
a crash, and light-blue fragments strew- 
ed the floor. Percival, piling his books 
on the side-table, looked round with an 
exclamation. 

‘‘Hullo!” said Lisle, ‘‘I’ve done it! 
Here’s a pretty piece of work I And you 
so fond of it, too !” He was picking up 
the flowers as he spoke. — ‘‘Here, Em- 
ma,” as the girl opened the door, ‘‘ I’ve 
upset Mr. Thorne’s flower-vase. Tell 
Miss Bryant it was my doing, and I’m 
afraid it won’t mend. Better take up the 
pieces carefully, though, on the chance.” 
This was thoughtful of Bertie, as the bits 
were remarkably »small. ‘‘And here are 
the flowers — all right, I think. Have 
you got everything ?” He held the door 
open while she went out with her load, 
and then he came back rubbing his 
hands: ‘‘Well, are you grateful? You’ll 
never see that again.” 

Percival surveyed him with a grave 
smile. “Pni grateful,” he said. "But 
I’d rather you didn’t treat all the things 
which offend my eye in the same way.” 

Bertie glanced round at the furniture, 
cheap, me^.n and shabby: "You think 
I should have too much smashing to 
do?” 

" I fear it might end in my sitting cross- 
legged on the floor,” said Thorne. " And 
my successor might cavil at Mrs. Bry- 
ant’s idea of furnished lodgings.” 

“Well, I know I’ve done you a good 
turn to-day,” Bertie rejoined: "my con- 
science approves of my conduct.” And 
he went off whistling. 

Percival, on his way out, met Lydia 
on the landing. "Miss Bryant, have 
you a moment to spare ?” he said as she 
went rustling past. 

She stopped ungraciously. 

“ The flower-vase on my table is bro- 
ken. If you can tell me what it cost I 
will pay for it.” 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


195 


“ Mr. Lisle broke it, didn’t he ? Em- 
ma said — ” 

“No matter,” said Thorne: “it was 
done in my room. It is no concern of 
Mr. Lisle’s. Can you tell me?” 

Lydia hesitated. Should she let him 
pay for it ? Some faint touch of refine- 
ment told her that she should not take 
money for what she had meant as a love- 
gift. She looked up and met the utter in- 
difference of his eyes as he stood, purse 
in hand, before her. She was ashamed 
of the remembrance that she had tried 
to attract his attention, and burned to 
deny it. “Well, then, it was three-and- 
six,” she said. 

Percival put the money in her hand. 
She eyed it discontentedly. 

“That’s right, isn’t it?” he asked in 
some surprise. 

The touch of the coins recalled to her 
the pleasure with which she had spent 
her own three-and-sixpence to brighten 
his room, and she half repented. “Oh, 
it’s right enough,” she said. “ But I 
don’t know why you should pay for it. 
Things will get knocked over — ” 

“ I beg your pardon : of course I ought 
to pay for it,” he replied, drawing him- 
self up. He spoke the more decidedly 
that he knew how it was broken. “ But, 
Miss Bryant, it will not be necessary to 
replace it. I don’t think anything of the 
kind would be very safe in the middle 
of my table.” And with a bow he went 
on his way. 

Lydia stood where he had left her, 
fingering his half-crown and shilling 
with an uneasy sense that there was 
something very mean about the trans- 
action. Now that she had taken his 
money she disliked him much more, 
but, as she had taken it, she went away 
and bought herself a pair of grass-green 
gloves. From that time forward she al- 
. ways openly declared that she despised 
Mr. Thorne. 

That evening, when they came back 
from their walk. Lisle asked his com- 
panion to lend him a couple of sove- 
reigns. “You shall have them back 
to-morrow,” he said airily. Percival as- 
sented as a matter of course. He hard- 
ly thought about it at all, and if he had 


he would have supposed that there was 
something to be paid in Miss Lisle’s ab- 
sence. He had still something left of the 
small fortune with which he had started. 
It was very little, but he could manage 
Bertie’s two sovereigns with that and the 
money he had laid aside for Mrs. Bry- 
ant’s weekly bill. 

Percival Thorne, always exact in his 
accounts, supposed that a time was fixed 
for the repayment of the loan. He did 
not understand that his debtor was one 
of those people who when they say “ I 
will pay you to-morrow,” merely mean 
“I will not pay you to-day.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

* CONCERNING SIS.SY. 

Percival had announced the fact of 
the Lisles’ presence in Bellevue street 
to Sissy in a carefully careless sentence. 
Sissy read it, and shivered sadly. Then 
she answered in a peculiarly bright and 
cheerful letter. “ I’m not fit for him,” 
she thought as she wrote it. “ I don’t 
understand him, and I’m always afraid. 
Even when he loved me best I felt as if 
he loved some dream-girl and took me 
for her in his dream, and would be an- 
gry with me when he woke. Miss Lisle 
would not be afraid. It is the least I can 
do for Percival, not to stand in the way 
of his happiness — the least I can do, and 
oh, how much the hardest !” So she gave 
Thorne to understand that she was getting 
on remarkably well. 

It was not altogether false. She had 
fallen from a dizzy height, but she had 
found something of rest and security in 
the valley below. And as prisoners cut 
off from all the larger interests of their 
lives pet the plants and creatures which 
chance to lighten their captivity, so did Sis- 
sy begin to take pleasure in little gayeties 
for which she had not cared in old days. 
She could sleep now at night without 
apprehension, and she woke refresheck 
There was a great blank in her exist- 
ence where the thunderbolt fell, but the 
cloud which hung so blackly overhead 
was gone. The lonely life was sad, but 
it held nothing quite so dreadful as the 


/ 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


196 

fear that a day might come when Perci- 
val and his wife would know that they 
stood on different levels — that she could 
not see with his eyes nor understand his 
thoughts — when he would look at her 
with sorrowful patience, and she would 
die slowly of his terrible kindness. The 
lonely life was sad, but, after all. Sissy 
Langton would not be twenty -one till 
April. 

Percival read her letter, and asked 
Godfrey Hammond how she really was. 
“ Tell me the truth,” he said ; ” you know 
all is over between us. She writes cheer- 
fully. Is she better than she was last 
year ?” 

Hammond replied that Sissy was cer- 
tainly better. ‘‘She has begun to go out 
again, and Fordborough gossip says that 
there is something between her and young 
Hardwicke. He is a good fellow, and I 
fancy the old man will leave him very 
well off. But she might do better, and 
there are two people, at any rate, who 
do not think anything will come of it — 
myself and young Hardwicke.” 

Percival hoped not, indeed. 

A month later Hammond wrote that 
there was no need for Percival to excite 
himself about Henry Hardwicke. Mrs. 
f'alconer had taken Sissy and Laura to 
a dance at Latimer’s Court, and Sissy’s 
conquests were innumerable. Young 
Walter Latimer and a Captain Fother- 
gill were the most conspicuous victims. 
‘‘I believe Latimer rides into Fordbor- 
ough every day, and the captain, being 
stationed there, is on the spot. Our St. 
Cecilia looks more charming than ever, 
but what she thinks of all this no one 
knows. Of course Latimer would be the 
better match, as far as money goes — he 
is decidedly better-looking, and, I should 
say, better-tempered — but Fothergill has 
an air about him which makes his rival 
look countrified, so I suppose they are 
tolerably even. Neither is overweighted 
with brains. What do you think ? Young 
Garnett cannot say a civil word to either 
of them, and wants to give Sissy a dog. 
He is not heart-whole either, I take it.” 

Hammond was trying to probe his 
correspondent’s heart. He flattered him- 


self that he should learn something from 
Percival, let him answer how he would. 
But Percival did not answer at all. The 
fact was, he did not know what to say. 
It seemed to him that he would give 
anything to hear that Sissy was happy, 
and yet — 

Nor did Sissy understand herself very 
well. Her grace and sweetness attract- 
ed Latimer and Fothergill, and a cer- 
tain gentle indifference piqued them. 
She was not sad, lest sadness should be 
a reproach to Percival. In truth, she 
hardly knew what she wished. One day 
she came into the room and overheard 
the fag-end of a conversation between 
Mrs. Middleton and a maiden aunt of 
Godfrey Hammond’s who had come to 
spend the day. ‘‘You know,” said the 
visitor, ‘‘ I never could like Mr. Percival 
Thorne as much as — ” 

Sissy paused on the threshold, and 
Miss Hammond stopped short. The 
color mounted to her wintry cheek, and 
she contrived to find an opportunity to 
apologize a little later : ‘‘ I beg your par- 
don, my dear, for my thoughtless remark 
just as you came in. I know so little 
that my opinion was worthless. I really 
beg your pardon.” 

‘‘What for?” said Sissy. “For what 
you said about Percival Thorne ? My 
dear Miss Hammond, people can’t be 
expected to remember that. Why, we 
agreed that it should be all over and 
done with at least a hundred years ago.” 
She spoke with hurried bravery. 

The old lady looked at her and held 
out her hands: ‘‘My dear, is the time 
always so long since you parted?” 

Sissy put the proffered hands airily 
aside and scoffed at the idea. They 
had a crowd of callers that afternoon, 
but the girl lingered more than once by 
Miss Hammond’s side and paid her del- 
icate little attentions. This perplexed 
young Garnett very much when he had 
ascertained from one of the company that 
the old woman had nothing but an annu- 
ity of three hundred a year. He hoped 
that Sissy Langton wasn’t a little queer, 
but, upon his word, it looked like it. 


*^FOR PERCIVALF 


197 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

SHORT RECKONINGS MAKE LONG FRIENDS. 

I T was the first 
of March, and 
a wild wind 
was hurrying 
fragments of 
white cloud 
across the 
blue. Perci- 
val had taken 
his breakfast 
in snatches, 
performing on 
his bell mean- 
while. Em- 
ma had not 
brought his 
boots, and 
would not so 
much as come to be told that he wanted 
them. At last, despairing, he went out 
on the landing and shouted his request 
to her as she shuffled on some errand 
below. Turning to go back, he met 
Miss Lisle, who had just come down 
the stairs behind him. 

They stood for a moment exchanging 
trivial remarks. To them came a stout, 
fresh-colored, peculiarly innocent-look- 
ing old man, who went by with a beam- 
ing smile and a slight bow. 

“That’s Mr. Fordham,” said Judith: 
“ I don’t think I ever saw him so close 
before.” 

“ No : one hardly meets him from one 
week’s end to another. He is unusually 
late this morning.” 

“ He looks a very quiet, steady — Real- 
ly, one might take him fqr rather a nice 
old man.” 

Percival stared blankly at her, and 
then began to laugh : “ Well, Miss Lisle, 
I never heard a reputation blighted so 
completely by a complimentary sentence 
before.” 

Judith blushed a little: “But he isn’t 
very nice, is he?” 

“I don’t know about nice. I should 


say he was as steady and harmless an 
old fellow as ever lived. What do you 
mean ?” * 

“Well,” Judith hesitated, “of course 
one has no business to judge any one 
without really knowing ; but his staying 
out so late at night — ” 

“‘So late at night?’” Percival re- 
peated. 

“ I suppose he has a latch-key general- 
ly. But one or two nights I am sure Miss 
Bryant sat up to let him in. I heard 
them whispering : at least, I heard her. 
I don’t think that girl could even whis- 
per quietly.” 

“But there must be some mistake. 
Fordham comes in quite early, and very 
often he doesn’t go out at all in the even- 
ing.” 

“ He goes out later,” said Judith. 

“Indeed, no. I could time all his 
movements. His room is next to mine, 
and the wall is not so thick as I could 
wish. He snores sometimes.” 

“ But — ” she persisted, looking scared 
and white, yet what was Fordham to 
her? — “but I have heard him over and 
over again, Mr. Thorne. I can’t be mis- 
taken.” 

Percival was disconcerted too. He 
looked at the carpet, at his slippered 
feet — at anything but her face: “You 
have heard some one, I suppose: I don’t 
know who comes in late. Not poor old 
Fordham.” He heard Emma on the 
stairs, and hurried to meet her. Com- 
ing back with his boots in his hand, he 
found Judith standing exactly as he had 
left her. 

“ I’m sure I beg Mr. Fordham’s par- 
don,” she said with a smile. “One does 
make curious mistakes, certainly. That 
nice-looking old man !” And nodding 
farewell to young Thorne, she went 
away. 

He did not see her again for two days, 
though he watched anxiously for her. 
Bertie came in and out, and was much 
as usual. On the third evening, as Per- 



198 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


cival was going up stairs, she called after 
him : "Mr. Thorne.” 

He turned eagerly. 

"You lent Bertie some money a day or 
two since ?” 

Something in her voice or her look 
made Percival sure that Lisle had bor- 
rowed* and spent it without her know- 
ledge, and that it was a trouble to her. 
After all, what did it matter ? He would 
sell his watch and pay Mrs. Bryant. He 
could not deny Bertie’s debt, since she 
had found it out, but he could make 
light of it. So he nodded: "Yes, by the 
the way, I believe I did : he hadn’t his 
purse or something.” This in a tone of 
airy indifference. 

"Tell me how much it was, please, 
and I’ll pay it back.” Then he saw 
that her purse was open in her hand. 

"Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Percival said : 
"don’t pay me off in such a quick, busi- 
ness-like way. Miss Lisle. I’m not the 
milkman, nor yet the washing. Bertie 
will settle with me one of these days.” 

" Please tell me, Mr. Thorne. I mean 
to pay it: I must.” 

"Well, I’ll ask him about it, then.” 

"You know,” with a look of reproach 
and pleading. 

Percival could not deceive her, she 
looked so sorrowfully resolute. He met 
the glance of her gray eyes. " Two 
pounds,” he said; and was certain that 
she was relieved at the answer. 

"Bertie wasn’t sure it wasn’t two 
pounds ten.” 

"On my honor, no. He asked me 
for a couple of sovereigns, and I took 
it literally.” 

"If you say so, I am sure. I didn’t 
doubt you : I only told you that you 
might understand why I asked.” She 
put the money, a sovereign and two 
halves, into his unwilling hand. Then 
he understood her relief, for, looking 
down into the little sealskin purse, he 
saw that there was no more gold in it. 
The last ten shillings must have been 
counted out in silver, and he was not 
quite sure it would not have ended in a 
threepenny piece and some halfpence. 

"Now I am going to ask a favor,” she 
said. "Don’t lend Bertie any more, 


please. He has been used to spend 
just what he liked, and he doesn’t think, 
poor boy ! And it is only wasted. Don’t 
let him have any more.” 

"But, Miss Lisle,” said Percival, "if 
your brother asks me do you mean that 
I am to say ‘ No ’ ?” 

"Please, if you would. He mustn’t 
be extravagant : we can’t afford it. He 
can’t pay you back, and if I lost any of 
my work — Mrs. Barton’s lessons, for in- 
stance — I couldn’t either.” 

"You work to pay me !” excTaimed 
Percival aghast : " I won’t hear of such a 
thing. Miss Lisle, you mustn’t ! It’s be- 
tween Bertie and myself, and I shouldn’t 
be ruined if he didn’t pay me till his ship 
comes home one of these days. Take it 
back, please, and he and I will arrange it.” 

She shook her head : " No : my broth- 
er’s debts are mine.” 

"Ah !” said Percival, with a swift, elo- 
quent glance. "Then let me be your 
creditor-^ little longer'^' I hardly know 
what it feels like, yet.” 

" Since when has ship come home, 
Mr. Thorne, that you can afford to be so 
generous ?” 

The blood mounted to his forehead at 
her question, but he answered quickly : 
" My ship has not come home. Perhaps 
if it had I should not dare to ask you to 
let me help you. I feel as if our poverty 
made us all nearer together.” 

" It is not every one who would say so 
in your place,” Judith replied. " I am 
your. debtor for those words. But we 
Lisles have wronged you too much al- 
ready: you shouldn’t try to make the 
load heavier.” 

"Wronged me?” he faltered. 

" Did you think I did not know ? My 
father had your money and ruined you : 
deny it if you can ! I suspected it, and 
lately I have been sure. Oh, if Bertie 
and I could pay you back ! But mean- 
while he shall not borrow from you and 
waste your earnings on his silly whims. 
If you lend him any more you may try 
to hide it from me, but I shall find it out, 
and I will pay it — every farthing. I will 
find some way, if I have to sit up every 
night for a week and work my fingers to 
the bone.” 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


199 


"God forbid!” said Percival. “ He shall 
have no more from me. But be generous, 
and promise me that if you should want 
help, such as my poverty can give, you 
will forget old times and come to me.” 

“No, I won’t promise that. I will re- 
member them and come.” She caught 
his hand, pressed it one moment in her 
own, flung it from her and escaped. 

“Judith!” he called after her, but she 
was gone. 

Percival went into his own room. The 
money had come just in time, for his 
landlady’s weekly account was lying on 
the table. He looked at the three coins 
with lingering tenderness, and after a 
moment’s hesitation he took one of them 
and vowed that he would never part with 
it. Yet in the midst of his ardent resolu- 
tion he smiled rather bitterly to think that 
it was not the sovereign, but one of the 
halves, he meant to keep for ever. Pov- 
erty had taught him many lessons, and 
among them how to combine economy 
and sentiment. “If she had given me 
the ten shillings’ worth of silver, I sup- 
pose I should have saved the threepen- 
ny bit !” he said to himself as he locked 
his little remembrance in his desk. 

A couple of days later, as he was walk- 
ing home with Bertie, they passed three 
1 or four men who were sauntering idly 
f along, and Thorne felt sure that his 
companion received and returned a si- 
) lent glance of recognition. He glanced 
j over his shoulder at them, and disliked 
; their look exceedingly. “ Do you know 
! who those fellows were we passed just 
now ?” he said. 

> Bertie looked back : “ One is the broth- 
j er of a man in our choir.” 
j “ Hm ! I wouldn’t have one of them 
for my brother at any price,” said Per- 
cival. The matter dropped, but he could 
not forget it. He fancied that there was 
a slight change in Bertie himself — that 
the boy’s face was keener and haggard, 
and there was an anxious expression in 
his eyes. But he owned frankly that he 
was not at all sure that he should have 
noticed anything if his suspicions had 
not been previously aroused. 

“Come in this evening,” said Bertie 
when they went up stairs. He leant 


against the door of Percival’s room, 
and as his friend hesitated he called 
to his sister : “ Here, Judith ! tell Thorne 
to come and have some tea with us : 
they’ve let his fire out, and his room is 
as warm and cheerful as a sepulchre.” 

“ Do you think I order other people 
about as I do you ?” she replied. — “Will 
you come, Mr. Thorne ? I can, at any 
rate, promise you a fire and a welcome.” 

When she met him she was quite calm, 
tranquil and clear-eyed. Do the ripples 
of the summer sea recall that distant line, 
the supreme effort of wind and tide some 
stormy night ? Percival would have 
thought that it had been all a dream 
but for the little coin which that wave 
had flung at his feet for a remembrance. 
And he had called after her “Judith!” 
The tide had ebbed, and he did not 
even think of her as other than Miss 
Lisle. Had she heard him that even- 
ing ? He would almost have hoped not, 
but that twilight moment seemed so far 
away that it must be absurd to link it 
with his every-day life. 

Apparently, she and Bertie were on 
their usual footing. Did the young fel- 
low know of that absurd mistake about 
old Fordham? Did, Percival really de- 
tect a shade of dim apprehension on Ju- 
dith Lisle’s face, as if she hid an unspo- 
ken fear ? As Bertie leant forward and 
the lamplight shone on his clearly-cut 
features, Percival was more than ever 
certain of the change in him. Could his 
sister fail to see it ? 

“ Bertie,” she said when they had fin- 
ished their tea and were standing round 
the fire — “Bertie, I’m afraid you have 
lost one of your pupils.” 

He had his elbow on the chimney- 
piece, his hand hung loosely open, and 
his eyes were fixed upon the leaping 
flames. When Judith spoke he looked 
up inquiringly. 

“Miss Nash — Emmeline Nash,” said 
Judith. 

Percival happened to be looking at the 
fire too, and he suddenly saw Bertie’s fin- 
gers drawn quickly up. But the young 
master spoke very composedly indeed : 
“Emmeline Nash — why? Has anything 
happened ?” 


200 


*^F0R PERCIVALF 


“No: only Mr. Nash has given in at 
last, and says she may go home at Eas- 
ter for good. — She is older than any of 
the other pupils, Mr. Thorne: in fact, 
she is not treated as a pupil. But her 
father is — “ 

“An old fossil,” said Bertie. 

“Well! — interested in fossils and that 
sort of thing, and a widower; so there 
has not been much of a home for her, 
and he always fancied she was better at 
school. But school can’t last for ever.” 

“Happiest time of one’s life !” Bertie 
ejaculated. 

“Oh! do you think so?” said Judith 
doubtfully. 

“Not at all. But I believe it is the 
right thing to say.” 

“ Stupid boy ! — And as she will very 
soon be twenty, I really think she ought 
not to be kept there any longer.” 

“Of course Miss Nash is delighted,” 
said Percival. 

“Yes, but hardly as much so as I ex- 
pected. One’s castles in the air don’t 
look quite the same when one is close 
to them. I am afraid her home -life 
won’t be very bright.” 

“ Perhaps she will make it brighter,” 
said Thorne. “What is she like? Is 
she pretty?” 

“Yes,” said Bertie. 

Judith smiled : “One has to qualify all 
one’s adjectives for her. She is nice-ish, 
pretty-ish : I doubt if she is as much as 
clever-ish.” 

“No need for her to be any more,” 
Bertie remarked. “ Didn’t Miss Craw- 
ford say she would come in for a lot of 
money — some of her mother’s — when 
she was one-and-twenty ?” 

“Yes, five or six hundred a year.” 

“ That’s why he has kept her at school, 
I suppose — afraid she should take up with 
a curate, very likely.” 

“ Mr. Nash is very rich too, and she is 
an only child,” said Judith, ignoring Ber- 
tie’s remark. “ But I think it has been 
hard on Emmeline.” 

“Well, I’m sorry she is going,” said 
Lisle — "very sorry.” 

“ Is she such a promising pupil ?” 
Thorne inquired. 

“She’s a nice girl,” said Bertie, “but 


a promising pupil — O Lord !” He flew 
to the piano, played an air in a singular- 
ly wooden manner, and then dragged it 
languidly, yet laboriously, up and down 
the keys. “Variations, you perceive.” 
After a little more of this treatment the 
unfortunate melody grew very lame in- 
deed, and finally died of exhaustion. 
“That’s Miss Emmeline Nash,” said 
Bertie, spinning round on the music- 
stool and confronting Percival. 

“ It is very like Emmeline’s style of 
playing,” Judith owned. 

“Of course it is. Let’s have some- 
thing else for a change.” And turning 
back to the piano, he began to sing. 
Then he called Judith to come and take 
her turn. She sang well, and Percival, 
by the fireside, noted the young fellow’s 
evident pride in her performance, and 
admired the 'pair. (Any one else might 
have admired the three, for Thorne’s 
grave, foreign-looking face was just the 
fitting contrast to the Lisles’ fair, clear 
features. The morbid depression of a 
couple of months earlier had passed, 
and left him far more like the Percival 
of Brackenhill. Poverty surrounded the 
friends and dulled their lives, but as yet 
it was only a burden, not a blight.) 

“You sing,” said Bertie, looking back. 
“ I remember you were great at some of 
those old songs. I’ll play for you : what 
shall it be ?” 

“I’m sure I hardly know,” said Perci- 
val, coming forward. 

“Let’s have ‘Shall I, wasting in de- 
spair,’” Lisle suggested. “It has been 
going in my head all this morning.” He 
played a few notes. 

“No, no!” the other exclaimed hur- 
riedly — “not that.” Too well he re- 
membered the tender devotion of more 
than a year before : 

If she love me, this believe, 

I will die ere she shall grieve. 

Sissy and Brackenhill rose before him — 
the melancholy orchard-walk, the little 
hands which lay in his on that Novem- 
ber day. He felt a dull pain, yet what 
could he do ? what could he have done ? 
There was a terrible mistake somewhere, 
but he could not say where. If he had 
married Sissy, would it not have been 


*^FOR PERCIVALR 


201 


there ? He woke up suddenly. Young 
Lisle was speaking, and Judith was say- 
ing, “ Let Mr. Thorne choose.” 

“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Percival. 
“ Shall it be ‘ Drink to me only with thine 
eyes ’ ?” 

He sang it well. His voice was strong 
and full, and the sweet old - fashioned 
courtesy of compliment suited him ex- 
actly. The last word had scarcely left his 
lips, when the door opened, and Emma 
showed in Mr. Clifton of St. Sylvester’s. 

The clergyman came forward, black- 
coated, smooth - shaven, with watchful 
glances which seemed ever looking out 
for that lay co-operation we hear so much 
of now. Lisle looked over his shoulder 
and sprang up to receive him. The vis- 
itor tried to get his umbrella and two or 
three books into the hand which already 
held his hat, and one little volume fell 
to the floor. Percival picked it up and 
smoothed the pages. “Mr. Thorne — 
Mr. Clifton,” said the young organist 
as the book was restored to its owner. 
Percival bowed gravely, and Mr. Clifton 
did not shake hands, as he would have 
done if the young man’s manner had 
been less reserved. He was lavish of 
such greetings. A clergyman might 
shake hands with any one. 

“I’ll not detain you long. Lisle,” he 
said. “ But I wanted to speak to you 
about the choir - practice to-morrow.” 
And there ensued a little business-talk 
between parson and organist. Judith 
took up a bit of work and Percival leant 
against the chimney - piece. Presently 
Lisle went back to the piano and tried 
over a hymn-tune which Mr. Clifton had 
brought. The clergyman stood solemn- 
ly by. “I met Gordon a few minutes 
ago,” he said. “ He was with his brother 
and some other men of the same stamp. 
If he mixes himself up with that set, he 
must^o.” 

“You’ll miss him in the choir, Mr. 
Clifton,” said Bertie. 

“ He must choose between such asso- 
ciates and the choir,” the other replied. 
The words were moderate enough, but 
the tone was austere. 

“Especially at Easter,” said Bfertie, 
still playing. 


“What of that?” demanded the oth- 
er. “I would rather have no choir at 
St. Sylvester’s than have men in it 
whose way of life during the week made 
a mockery of the praises they sang on 
Sundays.” 

He spoke in a low voice, and Bertie’s 
playing partially covered the conversa- 
tion. “ Perhaps, Mr. Clifton, if Gordon un- 
derstood how much you disapproved — ” 
the young organist began. 

“Gordon? Gordon? it isn’t only Gor- 
don who should understand. Every one 
should understand my feeling on such a 
subject without my having to explain it. 
But I won’t keep you any longer now : 
it is getting late. Remember, seven 
o’clock to-morrow evening.” And with 
a polite remark or two to the others Mr, 
Clifton bowed himself out, with Bertie 
in attendance. The procession of two 
might have been more dignified if the 
organist had not made a face at Judith 
and Percival as he went out at the door, 
and if he had not danced a fantastic but 
noiseless dance on the landing behind 
the incumbent of St. Sylvester’s, who was 
feeling feebly in the dim light for the top 
step of Mrs. Bryant’s staircase. 

“ Is anything the matter with Mr. Clif- 
ton ?” Judith asked when the boy came 
back and executed another war -dance 
all round the room. “ He didn’t seem 
pleased, I thought.” 

Bertie brought himself up with a grand 
flourish opposite the arm-chair, and sank 
into it : “ Bless you, no ! there’s nothing 
the matter with him. Tumbled out of 
bed the wrong side this morning — that’s 
all. He does sometimes.” 

“ Might have got over that by this time 
of night, one would think,” said Percival, 
looking at his watch. 

“ Hold hard ! you aren’t going yet ?” 
exclaimed Bertie, bounding up. — “ Here, 
Judith, let’s have another song to take 
the taste of old Clifton out of our mouths. 
Whatever possessed him to come here 
to-night ?” 

They had two or three songs instead 
of one, and then Percival went off. Ju- 
dith put her work away, shut up the piano 
and laid Bertie’s music straight. He stood 
meanwhile with his back to the dying fire, 


202 


*^F0R PERCIVALR 



idly chinking some money which he had 
taken from his waistcoat-jDOcket, a half- 
crown and two or three shillings. His 
brows were drawn down as if he were 


lost in thought. Presently, his half-crown 
went spinning in the air: he caught it 
dexterously — heads. Bertie half smiled 
to himself, as who should say, “ Well, if 


DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES.” — Page 201 




^^FOR PERCIVALr 


203 


Destiny will have it so, what am I that I 
should resist it ?” 

It is very well to toss up if you have 
already come to a decision which you 
cannot quite justify. Should the verdict 
be adverse, it is no worse than it was be- 
fore, for if you have really made up your 
mind so trivial an accident will not stop 
you. It may even be your duty to show 
that you attach no superstitious import- 
ance to it. And, on the other hand, if 
chance favors you, some of your bur- 
den of responsibility is transferred to 
the shoulders of Fate. 

So Bertie smiled, pocketed his half- 
crown, kissed his sister and went off to 
his own room, whistling on his way 
thither with peculiar distinctness and 
perseverance. 

Nearly an hour later two figures stood 
by the dim light in the passage and con- 
versed in whispers : 

“ Now, my charming Lydia, how about 
that key ?” 

“I’ll ‘charming Lydia’ you!’’ was the 
reply. “I like your impudence!’’ 

“ I know you do. You shall have some 
more when I’ve time to spare. But now 
I must really be off. Get me the key, 
there’s a dear girl.’’ 

“ I can’t, then. If you want a latch- 
i key, why don’t you go to ma and say so 
? like a man ? There it is, and you’d have 
1 it directly.’’ 

j “O most unreasonable Lydia! How 
j many times must I explain to you that 
1 that wouldn’t do, because your ma, while 
r she possesses many of the charms, is not 
I quite exempt from the weakness of her 
j sex : in short, Lydia, she talks.’’ 

I “Well, what then? If I were a man 
j I wouldn’t be afraid of my sister. I’d be 

I my own master.’’ 

“So will I,’’ said Bertie Lisle, 
j “And I’d say what I meant right out. 
I would !’’ 

“ If you knew there’d be a fuss, and 
people anxious about you, would you?’’ 
He yawned. “No : I’ll be my own mas- 
ter, but I like to do things quietly.’’ 

I “I don’t care so much about that,” 
said Lydia, whose feelings were less 
delicate. To struggle openly for an 
avowed object seemed to her the most 


natural thing in the world, and she 
would have preferred her independence 
to be conspicuous. She did not under- 
stand that with men of Bertie’s stamp it 
is not the latch-key itself, but the unsus- 
pected latch-key, which confers the lib- 
erty they love. 

“ Well ?” said he. “ Am I to stay here 
all night ?’’ 

“ That’s just what you’d better do. You 
won’t get any good out of that lot ; and 
so I tell you. You’ll lose your money 
and get into nasty drinking ways : don’t 
you go there any more.’’ 

“ Upon my word, Lydia, you preach 
as well as old Clifton does.’’ 

“And do you just as much good, I 
dare say.’’ 

“Just as much. You’ve hit it exactly.’’ 

“ I thought so. You aren’t the sort to 
take any heed. One may preach and 
preach — ’’ 

“ How well you understand me ! No, 
as you say, I am not the sort to get any 
good from preaching. You are quite 
right, Lydia: my character requires kind- 
ness, sympathy and a latch-key — espe- 
cially requires a latch-key.’’ 

“Especially requires a fiddlestick!’’ 
said Lydia; and, disregarding his smil- 
ing “Not at all,’’ she went on in an in- 
jured tone : “There’s ma worrying over 
accounts, and likely to worry for the next 
hour. How am I to get a key from un- 
der her very nose ?’’ 

Lisle seemed to reflect: “Old Ford- 
ham doesn’t have one, I suppose.’’ 

“Gracious! No, not he! If you gave 
him one he’d drop it as if it was red hot. 
He thinks they’re wicked.’’ 

There was a pause, but after a few 
moments there stole through the si- 
lence a sweetly insinuating voice : “Then, 
Lydia — ’’ 

Lydia half turned away and put up 
her left shoulder. 

“Then, Lydia, I suppose you would- 
n’t — ’’ 

“You’d better keep on supposing I 
wouldn’t.’’ 

“ Can’t suppose such cruelty for more 
than a moment — can’t really. No, lis- 
ten to me’’ — this with a change of voice : 
“ I must go out this evening. Upon my 


204 


**F0R PERCIVALr 


soul, it’s important. I’m in a fix, Lydia. 
I’ve not breathed a word to any one else, 
and wouldn’t for worlds, but you’ll not 
let it out, I know. If I’m lucky enough 
to get out of the scrape to-night, I’ll 
never get into it again, I can tell you.” 

“You will,” said Lydia. 

“I swear I won’t. And if not — ” 

‘‘Well? if not?” 

‘‘Why, I must try another plan to get 
free. I sha’n’t like it, but I must. But 
there’ll be a row, and I shall have to go 
away. I’d a good deal rather not.” 

‘‘What sort of plan?” she asked cu- 
riously. 

‘‘Desperate,” he answered, and shook 
his head. 

‘‘What is it?” Her eyes were widely 
opened in excitement and alarm. ‘‘You 
ain’t going to be driven to forge some- 
thing, like people in novels ? Or — or — 
it isn’t a big robbery, is it ? Oh, you 
wouldn’t !” 

The face opposite looked so smiling 
and candid and innocent that it made 
the words she had hazarded an obvious 
absurdity, even to herself, as soon as 
she had uttered them. 

‘‘Why not a murder?” said Lisle. ‘‘I 
think it shall be a murder. Upon my 
word, you’re complimentary ! No, no, 
I don’t mean to try my hand at any of 
them.” She smiled, relieved. ‘‘But I 
must go out to-night. Lydia, will you 
let me in once more ?” 

‘‘ Once more ? You won’t ask again ?” 

‘‘Never again.” 

There was a pause : ‘‘ Didn’t you say 
that last time ?” 

‘‘Lydia, you are the unkindest girl — ” 

‘‘ Well, then, I will.” 

‘‘ No, you are the kindest.” 

‘‘Just this once more. Mind, you tap 
very gently, and I’ll be awake. But do 
be careful. It frightens me so !” 

When the house was full of lodgers 
the Bryants stowed themselves away in 
any odd corners. At this time Lydia 
occupied a large cupboard — by courtesy 
called a small room — close to their stuffy 
little back parlor. Lisle would go to the 
yard behind the house, which was com- 
mon to two or three besides No. 13, and 
with one foot on a projecting bit of brick- 


work could get his hand on the sill and 
make his signal. 

‘‘ Some day the police ’ll take you for 
a burglar,” said Lydia encouragingly. 
‘‘Well, go and enjoy yourself.” 

‘‘ It is a shame to keep you up so long, 
isn’t it ? What do you do all the time, 
eh, Lydia ?” 

‘‘Sit in the dark, mostly, and think 
what a fool I’m making of myself.” 

‘‘ Don’t do that. Think how good you 
are to a poor fellow in trouble. That will 
be better — won’t it ? But I must be off. 
Good-bye, you kind Lydia.” 

He stooped forward and kissed her, 
taking her hands in his. He found it 
convenient to pay his debt in this coin, 
his creditor being passably pretty. Not 
that Bertie had any taste for indiscrim- 
inate kissing. Had he had five thou- 
sand a year, and had Lydia rendered 
him a service, he would have recojjj- 
pensed her with some of his superfluous 
gold. But as he only had his salary as 
organist and what he could make by 
giving music-lessons, he paid her with 
kisses instead. He had no particular 
objection, and was it not his duty to be 
economical, for Judith’s sake as well as 
his own ? 

‘‘ Go along with you !” said Lydia ; and 
the young man, who had achieved his 
purpose and had no reason for prolong- 
ing the interview, stole laughingly down 
stairs, waving a farewell as he vanished 
round the corner. Lydia stood as if she 
were rooted to the ground, listening in- 
tently. She heard the door opened very 
gently and closed with infinite precau- 
tions. She still stood till she had count- 
ed a hundred under her breath, and 
then, judging that Mrs. Bryant had not 
been disturbed by his stealthy exit, she 
went down to fasten it. She was pre- 
pared with an answer if she should be 
caught in the act, but she was glad to get 
away undetected, for an excuse which is 
perfectly satisfactory at the time may be 
very unsatisfactory indeed when viewed 
by the light of later events. So Lydia 
rejoiced when she found herself safe in 
her own room, though she pursued her 
usual train of meditation in that refuge. 

1 She appraised Lisle’s gratitude and kisses 


PERCIVALr 


205 


pretty accurately, and was angry with her- 
self that she should care to have them, 
knowing that they were worthless. Yet 
as she sat there she said his name to her- 
self, “Bertie,” as she had heard his sis- 
ter call him. And she knew well that it 
was pleasant to her to be thrilled by Ber- 
tie’s eyes and lips, pleasant to feel Bertie’s 
soft palms and slim strong fingers press- 
ing those hands of hers, on which she 
had just been trying experiments .with 
a new wash. Lydia looked thoughtfully 
into her looking-glass and took her re- 
flection into her confidence. “Ain’t you 
a silly.'*” she said to the phantom which 
fingered its long curl and silently moved 
its lips. “Oh, you are!” said the girl, 
“and there’s no denying it.” She shook 
her head, and her vis-a-vis shook its head 
in the dim dusk, as much as to say, “No 
more a fool than you are yourself, Lyd- 
ia.” — “Nobody could be,” said Lydia 
moodily. 

She did not deem it prudent to keep 
her light burning very late, and she had 
a long vigil before the signal came, the 
three soft taps at her window. She was 
prepared for it. Every sound had grown 
painfully distinct to her anxious ears, and 
she had been almost certain that she 
knew Lisle’s hurried yet stealthy step as 
he turned into the yard. She crept to 
the door and opened it, her practised 
hand recognizing the fastenings in the 
dark. The light from the street-lamp 
just outside fell on Bertie’s white face. 
“What luck?” she asked in a whisper. 

“Curse the luck!” he answered: “every- 
thing went against me from first to last.” 

" I told you so,” she whispered, closing 
the door. “ Didn’t I say that ?” 

“ Don’t ! there’s a good girl,” said Ber- 
tie softly, somewhere in the shadows. 

Lydia was silent, and shot the bolts very 
skilfully. But the key made a little grat- 
ing noise as she turned it, and the two 
stood for a moment holding their breath. 

“All right,” said Lisle after a pause. 

“ It’s late,” said Lydia. He could not 
deny it. “You must take your boots off 
before you go up,” she continued. “And 
do be careful.” 

He obeyed. “Good-night,” he whis- 
pered. “You’ll see that girl calls me in 


good time to-morrow ? I feel as if I should 
sleep for a century or so.” He yawned 
wearily : “ I wish I could.” 

“/ ain’t to be sleepy, I suppose : why 
should I be ?” she answered, but added 
hurriedly, “No, no, you shall be called 
all right.” 

“ You good girl I” whispered Lisle, and 
he went noiselessly away. A dim gas- 
light burned halfway up the stairs and 
guided him to his room. He had only 
to softly open and close his door, and 
all was well. Judith had not been awa- 
kened by the catlike steps of the man who 
was not old Fordham. She had fallen 
asleep very happily, with a vague sense 
of hopefulness and well-being. She had 
no idea that Bertie had just flung him- 
self on his bed to snatch a little rest, with 
a trouble on his mind which, had she 
known it, would have effectually banish- 
ed sleep from her eyes, and a hope of 
escape which would have nearly broken 
her heart. Her burden had been laid 
aside for a few hours, and through her 
dreams there ran a golden thread of 
melody, the unconscious remembrance 
of that evening’s songs and music. 


CHAPTER XL. 

BERTIE AT THE ORGAN. 

Bertie was duly called, and came down 
the next morning punctually enough, but 
somewhat weary and pale. A slight head- 
ache was supposed to account for his 
looks. Lydia complained of the same 
thing over her breakfast of bacon down 
stairs. But Fate was partial, for Bertie’s 
marble pallor and the faint shadow be- 
neath his eyes were utterly unlike poor 
Lydia’s dull complexion and heavy, red- 
rimmed eyelids. She was conscious of 
this injustice, and felt in a dim way that 
she had proved herself capable of one 
of those acts of self-devotion which are 
the more admirable that they are sure 
not to be admired. But the longer she 
thought of it the more she felt that this 
noble deed was not one to be repeated. 
One must set bounds to one’s heroism. 
“I can’t go on losing my beauty-sleep 
in this fashion,” said Lydia to herself. 


2o6 


PERCIVALF 


“ I do look such a horrid fright the next 
day.” 

When Judith had gone to Standon 
Square, Bertie yawned, stretched him- 
self, got out his little writing-case and 
sat down to write a letter. He spent 
some time over it, erasing and interlin- 
ing, balancing himself on two legs of his 
chair, while he looked for stray words on 
the ceiling or murmured occasional sen- 
tences to judge of the effect. At last it 
was finished, and, being copied in a 
dashing hand, looked very spontaneous 
indeed. " I think that ought to do it,” 
he said to himself as he smoked his pipe, 
glancing over the pages: “I think it wiii 
do it.” He smiled in the pride of tri- 
umphant authorship, but presently there 
came a line between his brows and a 
puzzled expression to his face : ” I’ll be 
shot if I know how it is to be managed 
afterward. People do it, but how ? I 
wonder if Thorne knows ? If law is at 
all catching, a year of that musty office 
must have given him a touch of it.” 
Lisle considered the matter for a few 
minutes, and then shrugged Kis shoul- 
ders : ‘‘ It won’t do. I’m afraid. I dare- 
n’t try him. I’m never quite clear how 
much he sees and understands, nor what 
he would do. And Gordon ? No.” There 
was another reverie. Finally, he arose, 
knocked the ashes out of his pipe and 
stretched himself once more: “ I’ve got 
to depend on myself, it seems to me. I 
must set my wits to work and astonish 
them all. But oh, if yawning were but 
a lucrative employment, how easily I 
could make money and be quit of the 
whole affair !” 

Bertie took a great interest in his per- 
sonal appearance, and w'as frank and 
unaffected in his consciousness of his 
good looks. He caught a glimpse of 
his reflection in the bottle-green mirror, 
and stopped short in considerable anx- 
iety. ” Brain-work and these late hours 
don’t suit me,” he said. ‘‘Good Heav- 
ens ! I look quite careworn. Well, it 
may pass for the effect of a gradually 
breaking heart : why not ?” 

A glance at his watch roused him to 
sudden activity. He carefully burnt ev- 
ery scrap of his original manuscript, feel- 


ing sure that Lydia would read his letter if 
she had the chance. He looked lenient- 
ly on this little weakness of hers. ‘‘Very 
happy to afford you what little amuse- 
ment I can in the general way,” he so- 
liloquized as he directed an envelope, 
‘‘but I really can’t allow you to read this 
letter, Lydia my dear.” Apparently, he 
was in a distrustful mood, for, after hesi- 
tating a moment, he got some wax and 
sealed it with a ring he wore. Then, 
putting it carefully in his pocket, he toss- 
ed a few sheets of blotted music - paper 
on the table, left his writing-case wide 
open, took his hat and a roll of music, 
and went out in the direction of St. Syl- 
vester’s, trying to work out his problem 
as he walked. He was not, however, so 
deep in thought that he had no eyes for 
the passers-by, and his attention was sud- 
denly attracted by a servant-girl dawd- 
ling along the opposite pavement. He 
watched her keenly, but furtively, as if 
to make quite sure, and when she turn- 
ed down a side street he followed, and 
speedily overtook her. 

“This is lucky!” he ejaculated. ‘‘I 
didn’t expect to see you, Susan. What 
are you doing here ?” 

She was a slight, plain girl, with a fair- 
ly intelligent face whose expression was 
doubtful. Sometimes it showed a will- 
ingness to please, oftener it was sullen, 
now and then merely thoughtful. Just 
at this moment, as she looked up at the 
young organist, it was crafty and greedy. 
‘‘I’m taking a note,” she said. ‘‘Miss 
Crawford’s always a-sending me with 
notes or something.” 

‘‘You don’t mind being sent with notes, 
do you ?” said Bertie blandly. 

“ That’s as may be,” the girl answered. 

‘‘ I should have thought it was pleas- 
ant work. At any rate, it’s as easy to 
take two as one, isn’t it?” 

‘‘I have to take ’em, ’cause I’m paid 
to, you see, easy or not.” 

‘‘Oh, of course you ought to be paid.” 
His fingers were in his waistcoat-pocket, 
and some coins that chinked agreeably 
were transferred to her hand, together 
with the sealed letter. ‘‘You’ve saved 
me a walk to Standon Square,” he said. 

The girl laughed, looking down at 


^'FOR PERCIVALF 


207 


her money: “It wouldn’t have hurt 
you, I dare say. You oughtn’t to make 
much of a walk there. How about an 
answer ?’’ 

“ Oh, I shall get an answer when I come 
to-morrow.’’ He nodded a careless fare- 
well, and went a little out of his way to 
avoid Gordon’s brother, who was visible 
in the distance. 

Susan turned the missive over in her 
hand. “It’s sealed tight enough,’’ she 
remarked to herself. “What did he want 
to do that for ?’’ She eyed it discontent- 
edly : “ I hate such suspicious ways. 
Wouldn’t there be a flare-up if I just 
handed it over to the old maid ? I 
won’t, though, for she’s give me warn- 
ing, and he’s a deal more free with his 
money than she’d ever be — stingy old 
cat ! But wouldn’t there be a flare-up ? 
My!’’ And Susan, who had an ungrat- 
ified taste for the sensational, looked at 
the address and smiled to think of the 
power she possessed. 

Before she slipped the letter into her 
pocket she sniffed doubtfully at the en- 
velope, and tossed her head in scorn : 
“ I thought so ! Smells of tobacco!’’ It 
was true, for Lisle, as we know, had 
smoked while he revised his composi- 
tion. “ If I were a young man going 
a-courting I’d scent my letters with rose 
or something nice, and I’d write ’em on 
pink paper — I would !’’ Susan reflected. 
But Lisle was wiser. There is no per- 
fume for a young ladies’ school like a 
whiff of cigar -smoke. To that prim, 
half convent-like seclusion, where man- 
ners are being formed and the proprieties 
are strictly observed, it comes as a pleas- 
ant suggestion of something worldly and 
masculine, just a little wicked and alto- 
gether delightful. 

So Lisle went on his way to St. Syl- 
vester’s, lighter of heart for having met 
Susan and got rid of the letter. While 
it was still in his pocket nothing was ab- 
solutely settled, in spite of that half-crown 
which had represented inexorable Destiny 
the night before. But now that it was 
gone, further thought about it was hap- 
pily unnecessary, and honor forbade him 
to draw back. It was true, however, that 
he was still face to face with the difficulty 


which had b^n in his mind when he met 
his messenger so conveniently. 

He caught a street Arab, and prom- 
ised him twopence if he would come 
and blow for him while he practised. 
But he began by playing absently and 
carelessly, for since the letter had been 
despatched his problem had become in- 
finitely more urgent, and it thrust itself 
between him and the music. His fingers 
roved dreamily over the keys, his eyes 
wandered, as if in spite of himself, to the 
east end of the church. All at once he 
came out with an impatient “ How do 
people manage it.?’’ and he finished the 
muttered question with a strong word 
and a big chord. 

A moment more, and his face is illu- 
minated with the inward light of a sud- 
den idea. He lets his hands lie where 
they happen to be, he sits there with 
parted lips and startled eyes. The idea 
is almost too wonderful, too simple, too 
obvious, and yet — “By Jove!’’ says 
Bertie, under his breath. 

His street Arab means to earn his 
twopence, and in spite of the silence he 
pumps away in a cheerful and conscien- 
tious manner till he shall be bidden to 
stop. The organ protests in a long and 
dolorous note, and startles the musician 
from his reverie. Forthwith he begins 
to play a stirring march, and the re- 
joicing chords arise and rush and crowd 
beneath his fingers. Has he indeed 
found the solution of his great perplex- 
ity ? Apparently he thinks so. He 
seems absolutely hurried along in tri- 
umph on these waves of jubilant har- 
mony. A ray of pale March sunlight 
falls on his forehead and shines on his 
hair as he tosses his head in the quick- 
ening excitement of the moment. His 
headache is gone, his weariness is gone. 
The notes seem to gather like bands 
of armed men and rush victoriously 
through the aisles. But even as he 
plays he laughs to himself, a boyish, 
happy laugh, for this great idea which 
is to help him out of all his difficulties 
is not only a great idea, but a great 
joke. And the march rings louder yet, 
for with every note he plays his thought 
grows clearer to his mind, plainer and 


208 


^^FOR percival: 


more feasible. There is a gay audacity 
about the laugh which lingers in Ber- 
tie’s eyes and on his lips, as if Dan Cu- 
pid himself had just been there, whis- 
pering some choice scheme of roguish 
knavery, some artful artlessness, into 
the young man’s ear. Bertie does not 
acknowledge that his inspiration has 
come in such a questionable fashion. 
He says to himself, “ It will do : I feel 
it will do. Isn’t it providential ? Just 
when I was in despair !” This is a more 
suitable sentiment for an organist, no 
doubt, for what possible business can 
Dan Cupid have at St. Sylvester’s } 
Louder and louder yet pours the great 
stream of music ; and that is a joke too, 
for Lisle feels as if he were shouting his 
secret to the four winds, and yet keep- 
ing it locked in his inmost soul, taking 
the passers-by into his confidence in the 
most open-hearted fashion, and laugh- 
ing at them in his sleeve. But the mu- 
sician is exhausted at last, and the end 
comes with a thundering crash of chords. 

" Here, boy — here’s sixpence for you : 
you may be off. We’ve done enough for 
to-day, and may go home to Bellevue 
street.” But it seems to Bertie Lisle, as 
he picks up his roll of music and comes 
down the aisle, that Bellevue street too 
is only a joke now. 


CH.\PTER XLI. 

WHERE there’s A WILL THERE’s A WAY. 

April had come, and the best of the 
year was beginning with a yellow dawn 
of daffodils. The trees stood stern and 
wintry, but there were little leaves on 
the honeysuckles and the hawthorn 
hedges, glad outbursts of song among 
the branches, and soft, shy caresses in 
the air. Sissy Langton, riding into 
Fordborough, was delicately beautiful 
as spring itself. She missed her squire 
of an earlier April, and his absence 
made an underlying sadness in her ra- 
diant eyes which had the April charm. 
That day her glance and smile had an 
especial brightness, partly because spring 
had come, and, though countless springs 
have passed away, each comes with the 


old yet ever-fresh assurance that it will 
make all things new ; partly because it 
was her birthday, and while we are yet 
young there is a certain joy of royalty 
which marks our birtlxday mornings ; 
but most of all because that day gave 
her the power to satisfy a desire which 
had lain hidden in her heart through 
the long winter months. 

It was the Fordborough market-day, 
and already, though it was but eleven 
o’clock, the little town was waking up. 
Sissy, followed by Mrs. Middleton’s staid 
servant, rode straight to the principal 
street and stopped at Mr. Hardwicke’s 
office. Young Hardwicke, reading the 
paper in his room, was surprised when 
a clerk announced that Miss Langton 
was at the door asking for his father. 
He forgot the sporting intelligence in 
an instant: “Well, isn’t my father in?” 

No : Mr. Hardwicke went out about 
twenty minutes earlier, and did not say 
when he should be back. They had told 
Miss Langton, and she said, “Perhaps 
Mr. Henry — ” 

Mr. Henry was off like a shot. He 
found Sissy on her horse at the door, 
looking pensively along the street, as 
if she were studying the effect of dusky 
red on palest blue — chimney-pots against 
the April sky. 

“So Mr. Hardwicke is out?” she said 
when they had shaken hands. “ I’m so 
sorry! I wanted him so particularly.” 

“ Is it important ? Are you in a great 
hurry ?” said Henry. “ He won’t be long, 
or he would certainly have left word — 
on a market-day especially. Could you 
come in and wait a little while ?” he sug- 
gested. “I suppose I shouldn’t do as 
well ?” 

“I don’t know,” said Sissy, looking a 
little doubtfully at the tall, fresh -color- 
ed young fellow, who smiled frankly in 
reply. 

“Oh, it isn’t at all likely,” said Mr. 
Henry with delightful candor. “ The gov- 
ernor can’t, for the life of him, under- 
stand how I make so many blunders. 
I’ve a special talent that way, I suppose,* 
but I don’t know how I came by it.” 

“Then perhaps it had better be Mr. 
Hardwicke. If it were a waltz, now — ” 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


209 


and she laughed. “ But it isn’t a waltz : 
it is something very important. Do you 
know anything about wills T' 

He looked up in sudden apprehension : 
“ Is it about a will ? Mrs. Middleton’s ? 
Is anything the matter?” 

“ No, it isn’t Aunt Middleton’s : it’s 
mine,” was the composed reply. But 
seeing relief, and almost amusement, on 
his face, she added hastily, ” I can make 
a will, can’t I? I’m twenty -one, you 
know : it’s my birthday to-day.” 

“Then I wish you many happy re- 
turns of the day.” 

“Thank you, but can I make a will ?” 

“Of course you can make a will.” 

“ A will that will be good ?” Sissy in- 
sisted, still speaking in the low tone she 
had adopted when she began to explain 
the object of her visit. “Can I make it 
here and now 1" 

“Not on horseback, I think,” said 
Hardwicke with a smile. “You would 
be tired of sitting here while we took 
down all your instructions. It isn’t very 
quick work making ladies’ wills. They 
generally leave no end of legacies. I 
suppose they are so good they don’t 
forget anybody.” 

“Mine won’t be like that: mine will 
be very short,” Sissy said. “And I sup- 
pose I am not good, for I shall forget al- 
most everybody in it.” She laughed as 
she said it, yet something in her voice 
struck Hardwicke as curiously earnest. 
“I will come in, I think, and tell you 
about it,” she went on. “ I want to make 
it to-day.” 

“To-day?” he repeated as he helped 
her to dismount. 

“Yes. I’ll tell you,” said Sissy, enter- 
ing his room, “and you’ll tell Mr. Hard- 
wicke, won’t you? I’ll get the Elliotts 
to give me some luncheon, and then I 
can come here again between two and 
three. I shall have to sign it, or some- 
thing, sha’n’t I ? Do tell your father I 
want it all to be finished to-day.” 

“I’ll tell him.” 

“Tell him it’s my birthday, so of 
course I must do just as I please and 
have everything I want to-day. I don’t 
know whether that’s the law, but I’m 
sure it ought to be.” 

14 


“Of course it ought to be,” Henry re- 
plied with fervor. “And I think we can 
undertake to say that it shall be our law, 
anyhow.” 

“ Thank you,” said Sissy. “ I shall be 
so very glad ! ’ And it can’t take long. 
I only want him to say that I wish all 
that I have to go to Percival Thorne.” 

“To Percival?” Hardwicke repeated, 
with a sensation as if she had suddenly 
stabbed him. “ To Percival Thorne ? 
Yes. Is that all I am to say ?” 

“ That’s all. I want it all to be for Per- 
cival Thorne, to do just what he likes 
with it. That can’t take long, surely.” 

Hardwicke bit the end of a penholder 
that he had picked up, and looked un- 
easily at her; “ You’re awfully anxious to 
get this done. Miss Langton : you aren’t 
ill, are you ?” 

“Oh, I’m well enough — much better 
than I was last year,” said Sissy lightly. 
“ But there’s no good in putting things 
of this sort off, you know” — she drop- 
ped her voicje — “ as poor Mr. Thorne did. 
And your father said once that if I didn’t 
make a will when I came of age my 
money would all go to Sir Charles Lang- 
ton. He doesn’t really want any more, 
I should think, for they say he is very 
rich. And he is only a second cousin 
of mine, and I have never seen him. 
It’s funny, having so few relations, isn’t 
it ?” 

“Very,” said Hardwicke. 

“And some people have such a lot,” 
said Sissy thoughtfully. “ But I always 
feel as if the Thornes were my relations.” 

“ I suppose so. At any rate, I don’t 
see that Sir Charles Langton has any 
claim upon you.” There was silence for 
a minute. Sissy drawing an imaginary 
outline on Hardwicke’s carpet with her 
riding - whip, he following her every 
movement with his eyes. 

“ I shall have to sign both my Chris- 
tian names, I suppose?” she said ab- 
ruptly. 

“ Have you two ? I didn’t know. What 
is the other ?” 

“Jane.” 

“Jane! I like that,” said Henry. “Yes, 
sign them both.” 

“Thank you. I don’t want to seem 


210 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


like an idiot to your father. I should 
like it best if I could just write ' Sissy ’ 
and nothing else, as 1 do at the end of 
my letters. When 1 see ‘ Cecilia Jane 
Langton ’ 1 feel inclined to call out, ‘ This 
is none of I!’ like the old woman.” 

She stood up to go: ‘‘You won’t for- 
get, will you ?” 

‘‘No, I won’t forget.” 

‘‘Everything to Percival Thorne.” 

‘‘Percival Thorne is an uncommonly 
lucky fellow,” said the young man, look- 
ing down. 

Sissy stopped short, glanced at him 
and colored. In her anxiety she had 
never considered the light in which the 
bequest might strike Henry Hardwicke. 
In fact, she had not thought of him at all 
except as a messenger. She was accus- 
tomed to take him for granted on any 
occasion. She had known him all her 
life, and he was always, in her eyes, the 
big friendly boy with whom she pulled 
crackers and played blindman’s buff at 
children’s parties. She dreamed of no 
possible romance with Henry, and did 
not imagine that he could have such a 
dream about her. He was as harmless 
as a brother, without a brother’s right to 
question and criticise. It was precisely 
that feeling which had been at the root 
of the friendliness which the Fordbor- 
ough gossips took for a flirtation. They 
could not have been more utterly mis- 
taken. She liked Henry Hardwicke — 
she knew that he was honest and hon- 
orable and good — but if any one had 
said that he was a worthy young man, 
I believe she would have assented. And 
that is the last adjective which a girl 
would apply to her ideal. 

Sissy’s scheme had been in her mind 
through all the winter, but she had al- 
ways imagined herself stating her in- 
tentions in a business-like way to old 
Mr. Hardwicke, who was a friend of 
the family. She had been so thunder- 
struck when she found that he was out 
that she had taken Henry into her con- 
fidence at a moment’s warning. She 
dared not risk any delay, tt would be 
impossible to go home leaving Perci- 
val’s future insecure. Suppose she died 
that night — and she was struck with the 


fantastic coincidence of Mr. Hardwicke’s 
second absence at the critical moment— 
suppose she felt herself dying, and knew 
that the only thing she could have done 
for Percival was left undone ! She could 
not face the possibility of that agony. In- 
deed, she wondered how she had lived 
through the long hours which had elap- 
sed since the clock struck twelve and the 
day began which made her twenty -one 
— not the girl Sissy any longer, but the 
woman who held Percival’s fortune in 
her hands. How could she have gone 
away with her purpose unfulfilled ? 

When Henry said ‘‘Percival Thorne 
is an uncommonly lucky fellow,” she 
colored, but only that transient flush 
betrayed her, for she answered readily : 
“Why, Mr. Hardwicke, what a dreadful 
thing to say to me ! I hope you don’t 
have second-sight or anything horrible 
of that sort ?” 

” S^ond-sight !” Henry repeated doubt- 
fully, looking down at a little dangling 
eye-glass : ‘‘what’s that ?” 

” Oh, you must know. Isn’t it second- 
sight when you can tell if people are 
going to die ? You see them in their 
winding-sheets, and they are low down 
if it will only be rather soon. But if it 
is to be quite directly their shrouds are 
wrapped round them high up. What 
was mine like, that you said Percival 
Thorne was so lucky ? Up to here ?” 
And, standing before him, she smiled 
and touched her chin. 

‘‘God forbid !” said Henry. ‘‘How can 
you say such fearful things ?” 

“ Oh, you didn’t see it, then ? I’m very 
glad.” 

‘‘Good Heavens! no! And I don’t 
believe it. I didn’t mean that Thorne 
would be lucky if you died !" 

‘‘I can’t do him any good any other 
way,” said Sissy with sweet composure ; 
‘‘but I don’t think I’m going to die, so I 
don’t suppose I shall do him any good 
at all. Do you think this is a strange 
fancy of mine ? The truth is. Aunt Mid- 
dleton and I have been unhappy about 
Percival ever since last May, because 
we know his grandfather meant to have 
done something for him. He isn’t rich, 
and he ought to have had Brackenhill ; 


^*FOR percival: 


2II 


so I should like him to have my money 
if I die. It is only a chance, because I 
dare say I may live fifty years or so — 
only fancy ! — but I would rather Perci- 
val had the chance than Sir Charles. 
That’s all. You’ll explain it to your 
father ? It can’t do any harm if it does 
no good.” 

“ Oh no : I see. It can’t do any harm.” 

“And now I’ll be off,” laughed Sissy. 
“ How dreadfully I have made you waste 
your time ! I dare say if I hadn’t been 
here you would have written ever so 
many things on parchment and tied 
them up with red tape.” 

“Oh yes, quantities!” Hardwicke re- 
plied as he escorted her to the door. “A 
cartload at least. I’m glad you think 
I’m so industrious.” 

Standing outside, he said something 
about her horse. He did not like Fire- 
fly’s look, and he told her so. More- 
over, he threatened to tell Mrs. Middle- 
ton his bad opinion of Sissy’s favorite. 

“ Nonsense !” she answered lightly. 
“There’s nothing to be afraid of.” But 
suddenly she turned and looked at him. 
“ Don’t you really think Firefly is safe ?” 
she said. “Well, I must see about it. — 
William, I’m not going back now, and 
I think I’ll walk to Mrs. Elliott’s. You 
had better meet me here at half- past 
two.” 

And with a parting glance at Hard- 
wicke she went away down the sunshiny 
street, and he stood looking after her. 
He would have liked to be her escort to 
the Elliotts’ house, but he had her mes- 
sage to deliver to his father, and he knew 
she would not permit it. Besides, to tell 
the truth, she had taken him by surprise, 
and gone away before he thought of any- 
thing of the kind. So he could only stand 
bareheaded on the office-steps watching 
her as she went on her way. But sud- 
denly his lips parted to let out a word, 
which certainly would not have escaped 
him had he been by Sissy’s side. “ There’s 
that Fothergill fellow!” said Henry, rec- 
ognizing the captain’s slim figure and 
black moustache. And he turned on 
his heel and went in. 

He was quite right. It was Fothergill 
who came sauntering along the pave- 


ment, looking at the shop-windows, at 
the passers-by, at the preparations for 
the market, with quick eyes and an in- 
terest which conveyed the impression of 
his superiority to it all better than any 
affectation of languid indifference. His 
glances seemed to say, “And this is a 
country town — a market — these are farm- 
ers — people live here all their lives!” 
But when he saw Sissy Langton he came 
forward eagerly: And perhaps it was 
just as well that he was at hand to be 
her squire through the busy little street, 
for the girl was seized with a new and 
unaccountable nervousness. A bit of 
orange-peel lying in the road caused 
her a sudden tremor. Two or three 
meek and wondering cows, which gazed 
vacantly round in search of their famil- 
iar pasture, appeared to her as a herd of 
savage brutes. She looked distrustfully 
up and down the road, and waited at the 
pavement’s edge for a donkey -cart to 
pass before she dared attempt a cross- 
ing. It was just at this moment that 
the captain appeared, quickening his 
pace and lifting his hat, only too ready 
to guard her through all the perils of a 
Fordborough market-day. 

Henry Hardwicke hated reading, and 
had no particular love for the law. His 
father said he was a fool, and was inor- 
dinately fond of him nevertheless. It 
might be that the old lawyer was right 
on both points. And, -dull as Henry was 
supposed to be, he was capable of del- 
icate feelings and perceptions as far as 
Sissy Langton was concerned. It seem- 
ed to him that accident had revealed to 
him a hidden wound in her heart ; and 
the revelation pained him — not selfishly, 
for he had never hoped for himself, but 
because of the secret suffering which it 
implied. His one idea was to do her 
bidding, yet not betray her. He deliv- 
ered her message to his father with a 
tact of which he was himself uncon- 
scious. On his lips it became no less 
urgent, but he dwelt especially on Sissy’s 
desire to see justice done to the man who 
had been accidentally disinherited ; on her 
feeling that she owed more to the Thornes, 
whose home and love she had shared, 
than to the Langtons, with whom she 


212 


«FOR PERCIVALr 


shared nothing but a name ; and on her 
impatience of even an hour’s delay, be- 
cause the squire’s sudden death had 
made a deep impression on her mind. 
All this, translated into Harry’s blunt and 
simple speech, was intelligible enough to 
Mr. Hardwicke. The girlish whim that 
all should be done on her birthday made 
him smile, but the remembrance of God- 
frey Thorne was present in his mind as in 
hers. He did not attach much importance 
to the whole affair, and felt that he should 
not be overwhelmed with surprise should 
he hear a few months later that Sissy was 
going to be married to some one else, 
and wanted to make some compromise 
— perhaps to resign the squire’s legacy 
to Percival. To his eyes it looked more 
like an attempt at restitution than any- 
thing else. “She is sorry for him, poor 
fellow!’’ thought Mr. Hardwicke. “She 
did not know her own mind, and now 
she would like to atone to him some- 
how.’’ 

Sissy came back alone at the time she 
had fixed, looking white and anxious. A 
client came out as she arrived, and five 
farmers were waiting in the office to see 
Mr. Hardwicke : therefore, though she 
was ushered in at once, the interview, 
was brief. The old lawyer paid her a 
smiling compliment on her promptitude. 
“ We have to advise people to make their 
wills sometimes,’’ he said, “but you are 
beforehand with us.’’ Sissy expressed a 
fear that she had troubled him on a very 
busy day, and he assured her that to 
blame her because her twenty-first birth- 
day happened to fall on a Friday would 
be the last thing he should think of do- 
ing. Then the girl looked up at him, 
and said that old Mr. Thorne had al- 


ways been so good to her, and she 
thought that perhaps if he could see he 
would be glad, so she^ould not put it 
off. She stopped abruptly, and her eyes 
filled. Mr. Hardwicke bent his head in 
silent acquiescence, the brief document 
was duly signed and witnessed, and Sis- 
sy went away, riding home as if she had 
never known what fear meant. Suppose 
Firefly threw her, what then ? She had 
been to Mr. Hardwicke, and though her 
“Cecilia Jane Langton ’’ was not all she 
could have wished, because she was ner- 
vous and Mr. Hardwicke’s pen was so 
scratchy, still there it was. And was not 
the paper, thus signed, a talisman against 
all dread of death ? 

So her burden was lighter. But what 
could lighten the other load which lay 
on her heart ? She hardly knew whether 
it were love or fear that she felt for Per- 
cival. The long days which had passed 
since she saw him had only deepened the 
impression of that summer evening when 
they parted. His reply to her entreaty 
that he would come back to her had been 
exactly what she had feared — as gentle 
as he himself had been when they stood 
face to face in the old drawing-room at 
Brackenhill, and as inflexible. If she 
could forget him — if she could learn to 
care for Captain Fothergill or Walter 
Latimer — what a bright, easy, sunshiny 
life might yet be hers I No, ten thou- 
sand times, no! Better to suffer the 
weariness of dread and doubt and long- 
ing for Percival. 

But Percival would have been aston- 
ished if he could have seen the darkly 
heroic guise in which he reigned over 
Sissy Langton’s dreams. 






^'FOR PERCIVALF 


213 


CHAPTER XLII. 
WALKING TO ST. SYLVESTER’S. 



B ertie lisle was sorely driven 
and perplexed for a few days af- 
f ter his triumphant performance on the 
organ. His letter was not a failure, 

■ but further persuasion was required to 
I f make his success complete ; and during 
[ the brief interval he was persecuted by 
I Gordon’s brother. 

? Mr. William Gordon, when amiable 
! and flattering, had an air of rough and 
hearty friendliness which was very well 
as long as you held him in check. But 
when, though still amiable, he thought 
he might begin to take liberties, it was 
i not so well. He was hard, coarse-tongued 
and humorous. And when Mr. William 
- Gordon had the upper hand he showed 
• himself in his true colors, as a bully and 
' a blackguard. Bertie Lisle, not yet two- 
• and-twenty, was no match for this man 
' of thirty-five. He owed him money — 
^ no great sum, but more than he could 
I pay. Now that matters had come to this 
J pass. Lisle was heartily ashamed of him- 
1 self, his debts and his associates ; but the 


more shame he felt the more anxious he 
was that nothing should be known. He 
had sought the society of these men be- 
cause he had wearied of the restraints of 
his home-life. Judith checked and con- 
trolled him unconsciously through her 
very guilelessness. He might have had 
his liberty in a moment had he chosen, 
but the assertion of his right would have 
involved explanations and questions, and 
Bertie hated scenes. He found it easier 
to coax Lydia than to face Judith. 

But this state of affairs could not go 
on. Bertie had once fancied that he 
saw a possible way out of his difficulties, 
and had hinted to Gordon, with an air of 
mystery, that though he could not pay 
at once he thought he might soon be in 
a position to pay all. If he hoped to 
silence his creditors for a while with this 
vague promise, he was mistaken. Gor- 
don continually reminded him of it. He 
had not cared to inquire into the source 
of the coming wealth, but if Lisle meant 
to rob somebody’s till or forge Mr. Clif- 
ton’s name to a cheque, no doubt Gor- 
don thought he might as well do it and 
get it over. If you are going to take a 
plunge, what, in the name of common 
sense, is the good of standing shivering 
on the brink ? 

Unluckily, Lisle’s idea presented dif- 
ficulties on closer inspection. But as he 
had gone so far that it was his only hope, 
he made up his mind to risk all. He 
saw but one possible way of carrying 
out his scheme. It was exactly the way 
which no cautious man would ever have 
dreamed of taking, and therefore it suit- 
ed the daring inexperience of the boy. 
Therefore, also, it was precisely what no 
one would dream of guarding against. 
In fact, Bertie was driven by stress of 
circumstances into a stroke of genius. 
He took his leap, and entered on a pe- 
riod of suspense, anxiety and sustained 
excitement which had a wild exhilara- 
tion and sense of recklessness in it. He 


214 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


suffered much from a strong desire to 
burst into fits of unseasonable laughter. 
His nerves were so tensely strung that it 
might have been expected he would be 
irritable ; and so he was sometimes, but 
never with Judith. 

Thorne listened night after night for 
the man with the latch-key, but he lis- 
tened in vain. He was only partly re- 
assured, for he feared that matters were 
not going on well at St. Sylvester’s. In- 
deed, he knew they were not, for Ber- 
tie had strolled into his room one day 
with a face like a thundercloud. The 
young fellow was out of temper, and 
perhaps a little off his guard in conse- 
quence. When Gordon amused himself 
by baiting him. Lisle was forced to keep 
silence ; but in this case it was possible, 
if not quite prudent, to allow himself the 
relief of speech. 

“What is the matter?’’ said Percival, 
looking up from his book. 

Bertie, who had turned his back on 
him, stood looking out of the window and 
tapping a tune on the pane. “ What’s the 
matter?’’ he repeated. "Clifton has taken 
it into his stupid head to lecture me about 
some rubbish he has heard somewhere. 
Why doesn’t some one lock him up in 
an idiot asylum ? The meddling fool !’’ 

“If that is qualification enough — ” 
Thorne began mildly, but Bertie raged 
on : 

“What business is it of his? I’m not 
going to stand his impudence, as I’ll 
precious soon let him know. A likely 
story ! He didn’t buy me body and soul 
for his paltry salary, though he seems to 
think it. The old humbug in a cassock ! 
It’s a great deal of preaching and very 
little practice with him, / know.’’ 

(He knew nothing of the kind. Mr. 
Clifton was a well-meaning man, who 
had never disturbed his mind by an- 
alyzing his own opinions nor any one 
else’s, and who worked conscientiously 
in his parish. But no doubt Bertie had 
too much respect for truth to let it be 
mixed up with a fit of ill-temper.) 

“Take care what you are about,’’ said 
Percival as he turned a leaf. He look- 
ed absently at the next page. “ I don’t 
want to interfere with you — ’’ 


"0\\.,you! that’s different,’’ said Lisle 
without looking round. “Not that I 
should recommend even you — ’’ 

“ Don’t finish : I hope the caution isn’t 
needed. Of course you will do as you 
think best. You are your own master, 
but I know you’ll not forget that it is a 
question of your sister’s bread as well 
as your own. That’s all. If you can 
do better for her — ’’ 

Bertie half smiled, but still he looked 
out of the window, and he did not speak. 
Presently the fretful tapping on the pane 
ceased, and he began to whistle the same 
tune very pleasantly. At last, after some 
time, the tune stopped altogether. “ I be- 
lieve I’m a fool,’’ said Lisle. “After all, 
what harm can Clifton do to me ? And, 
as you say, it would be a pity to make 
Judith uneasy. Bless the stupid prig ! he 
shall lecture me again to-morrow if he 
likes. He hasn’t broken any bones this 
time, and I dare say he won’t the next.’’ 
The .young fellow came lounging across 
the room with his hands in his pockets 
as he spoke. “I suppose he has gone 
on preaching till it’s his second nature. 
Talk of the girl in the fairy-tale drop- 
ping toads and things from her lips! 
Why, she was a trifle to old Clifton. I 
do think he can’t open his mouth with- 
out letting a sermon run out.’’ 

Thorne was relieved at the turn Ber- 
tie’s meditations had taken, but he could 
not think that the young fellow’s posi- 
tion at St. Sylvester’s was very secure. 
Neither did Judith. Neither did Bertie 
himself. The thought did not trouble 
him, but Judith was evidently anxious. 

“You do too much,’’ said Percival one 
day to her. They were walking to St. 
Sylvester’s, and Bertie had run back for 
some music which had been forgotten. 

“Perhaps,’’ said Judith simply. “But 
it can’t be helped.’’ 

“What! are they all so busy at Stan- 
don Square?’’ 

“Well, the holidays, being so near, 
make more work, and give one the 
strength to get through it.’’ 

“ I’m not so sure of that. I’m afraid 
Miss Crawford leaves too much to you, 
and you will break down.’’ 

“I’m more afraid Miss Crawford will 


^^FOR PERCIVALF ' 


215 


break down. Poor old lady ! it goes to 
my heart to see her. She tries so hard 
not to see that she is past work; and 
she is.” 

‘‘Is she so old? 1 didn’t know — ” 

‘‘She was a governess till she was 
quite middle-aged, and then she had 
contrived to scrape together enough to 
open this school. My mother was her 
first pupil, and the best and dearest of 
all, she says. She had a terribly up-hill 
time to begin with, and even now it is no 
very great success. Though she might 
do very well, poor thing ! if they would 
only let her alone.” 

‘‘And who will not let her alone ?” 

‘‘Oh, there is a swarm of hungry re- 
lations, who quarrel over every half- 
penny she makes ; and she is so good ! 
But you can understand why she is anx- 
ious not to think that her harvest-time is 
over.” 

‘‘ Poor old lady !” said Percival. ‘‘And 
her strength is failing?” 

Judith nodded : ‘‘She does her best, but 
it makes my heart ache to see her. She 
comes down in the morning trying to 
look so bright and young in a smart cap 
and ribbons : I feel as if I could cry when 
I see that cap, and her poor shaky hands 
going up to it to put it straight.” There 
were tears in the girl’s voice as she spoke. 
‘‘And her writing ! It is always the bad 
paper or the bad pen, or the day is dark- 
er than any day ever was before.” 

‘‘ Does she believe all that ?” the young 
man asked. 

‘‘ I hardly know. I think she never 
has opened her eyes to the truth, but I 
suspect she feels that she is keeping 
them shut. It is just that trying not to 
see which is so pathetic, somehow. I 
find all manner of little excuses for do- 
ing the writing, or whatever it may hap- 
pen to be, instead of her, and then I see 
her looking at me as if she half doubted 
me.” 

‘‘ Does the school fall off at all ?” 

‘‘ I’m not sure. Schools fluctuate, you 
know, and it seems they had scarlet fe- 
ver about six months ago. That might 
account for a slight decrease in the num- 
bers : don’t you think so ?” 

‘‘Oh, certainly,” said Percival, with as 


much confidence as if boarding-school 
statistics had been the one study of his 
life. ‘‘No doubt of it.” 

They walked a few paces in silence, 
and then Judith said, ‘‘Perhaps she will 
be better after the holidays. I think she 
is very tired, she is so terribly drowsy. 
She drops asleep directly she sits down, 
and is quite sure she has been awake all 
the time. I’m so afraid the girls may 
take advantage of it some day.” 

‘‘But even for Miss Crawford’s sake 
you must not do too much,” urged Per- 
cival. 

‘‘ I will try not. But it is such a com- 
fort to me to be able to help her ! If it 
were not for that, I sometimes question 
whether I did wisely in coming here at 
all.” 

‘‘ If it is not an impertinent question — 
though I rather think it is — what should 
you have done if you had not come?” 

‘‘I should have stayed with an aunt 
of mine. She wanted me, but she would 
not help Bertie, and I fancied that I could 
be of use to him. But I doubt if I can 
do him much good, and if I lost my 
situation I should only be a burden to 
him.” 

‘‘ Perhaps that might do him more 
good than anything,” Percival suggest- 
ed. ‘‘ He might rise to the occasion and 
take life in earnest, which is just what he 
wants, isn’t it ? For any one can see how 
fond he is of you.” 

‘‘ He’s a dear boy,” Judith answered 
with a smile, and looked over her shoul- 
der. The dear boy was not in sight. 

‘‘ Plenty of time,” said Percival. ‘‘ But 
it is rather a long way for him, so often 
as he has to go to St. Sylvester’s^ 

‘‘ He doesn’t mind that. He says he 
can do it in less than ten minutes, only 
to-day he had to go back, you see.” 

‘‘ It isn’t so far as it would be to St. 
Andrew’s,” Thorne went on. ‘‘By the 
way, have you ever been to your parish 
church ?” 

‘‘ Never. I don’t think your descrip- 
tion was very inviting.” 

‘‘Oh, but it would be worth while to 
go once. The first time I went I thought 
it was like a quaint, melancholy dream. 
Such a dim, hollow, dusty old building, 


2I6 


' ^^FOR percival: 


and little cherubs with grimy little mar- 
ble faces looking down from the walls. 
When the congregation began to shuffle 
in each new-comer was more decrepit 
and withered than the last, till I looked 
to see if they could really be coming 
through the doorway from the outer 
world, or whether the vaults were open 
and they were the ghosts of some dead- 
and-gone congregation of long ago. And 
when I looked round again, there was 
the clergyman in a dingy surplice, as if 
he had risen like a spectre in his place. 
He stared at us all with his dull old eyes, 
and turned the leaves of a great book. 
And all at once he began to read, in a 
piping voice so thin and weak that it 
sounded just like the echo of some for- 
mer service — as if it had been lost in the 
dusty corners, and was coming back in 
a broken, fragmentary way. It was all 
the more like an echo because the old 
clerk is very deaf, and he begins in a 
haphazard fashion when he thinks it is 
time for the other to have done. So 
sometimes there is a long pause, and 
then you have their two old voices mixed 
up together, like an echo when it grows 
confused. It is very strange — gives one 
all manner of quaint fancies. You should 
go once. Nothing could be more utterly 
unlike St. Sylvester’s.” 

‘‘I think I will go,” said Judith. ‘‘I 
know a church something like that, only 
not quite so dead. There is a queer old 
clerk there too.” 

” W’here is that ?” 

‘‘Oh, it isn’t anywhere near here. A 
little old-fashioned country town — Rook- 
leigh.” 

Percival turned eagerly: ‘‘Where did 
you say ? Rookleigh ?" , 

‘‘Yes. Why, do you know anything 
of it?” 

‘‘Tell me what you know of it.” 

‘‘My aunt. Miss Lisle, lives there — the 
aunt I was telling you about, who want- 
ed me to stay with her.” 

‘‘And you were there last summer ?” 

‘‘Yes. In fact, I was there on a visit 
when I heard that — that our home was 
broken up. I stayed on for some time : 
1 had nowhere to go.” 

‘‘ Miss Lisle lives in a red house by the 


river-side,” said Percival, prompted by a 
sudden impulse. 

It was Judith’s turn to look surprised : 
‘‘Yes, she does. But, Mr. Thorne, how 
do you know ?” 

‘‘The garden slopes to the water’s 
edge,” he went on, not heeding her. 
‘‘And there is a wide gravel-path down 
the middle, cutting it exactly in two. It 
is all very neat — it is wonderfully neat — 
and Miss Lisle comes down the path, 
looking right and left to see whether all 
the carnations and the chrysanthemum- 
plants are tied up properly, and whether 
there are any snails.” 

.‘‘Mr. Thorne, who told you — ? No, 
you must have seen.” 

‘‘ But you didn’t walk with her. There 
was a cross -path behind some ever- 
greens.” 

‘‘Yes,” said Judith: ‘‘I hated to be 
seen then. I couldn’t go beyond the 
garden, and I used to walk backward 
and forward there, so many times to a 
mile — I forget how many now. But, 
Mr. Thorne, tell me, how do you know 
all this ?” 

"It is simple enough,” he said. ‘‘I 
was at Rookleigh one day, and I strolled 
along the path by the river. You can see 
the house from the farther side. I stood 
and looked at it.” 

‘‘Yes, but how did you know whose 
house it was ?” 

‘‘ I hadn’t the least idea. But it took 
my fancy — why I don’t know. And 
while I was looking I saw that some one 
came and went behind the evergreens.” 

‘‘ Then it was only a guess when you 
began to describe it?” 

‘‘Well, I suppose so. It must have 
been, mustn’t it?” he said, looking cu- 
riously at her. ‘‘But it felt like a cer- 
tainty.” 

They were just at St. Sylvester’s, and 
Bertie ran up panting, waving his mu- 
sic. ‘‘Lucky I’ve not got to sing,” said 
the young fellow in a jerky voice, and 
rushed to the vestry -door, where Mr. 
Clifton fidgeted, watch in hand. After 
such a race it was natural enough that 
the young organist should be somewhat 
flushed as he went up the aisle with a 
surpliced boy at his heels. But Judith 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


217 


had not hurried — had rather lingered, 
looking back. What was the meaning 
of that soft rosy glow upon her cheeks ? 
And why was Thorne so absent, stand- 
ing up and sitting down mechanically, 
till the service was half over before he 
knew it? 

He was recalling that day at Rook- 
leigh — the red houses by the water-side, 
the poplars, the pigeons, the old church, 
the sleepy streets, the hot blue sky, the 
gray glitter of the river through the 
boughs, and the girl half seen behind 
the evergreens. She had been to him 
like a fair faint figure in a dream, and 
the airy fancies that clustered round her 
had been more dreamy yet. But sud- 
denly the dream-girl had stepped out of 
the clouds into every-day life, and stood 
in flesh and blood beside him. And the 
nameless fascination with which his im- 
agination had played was revealed as the 
selfsame attraction as that which his soul 
had known when, years before, he first 
met Judith Lisle. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

FAINT HEART WINS FAIR LADY. 

Percival Thorne would have read- 
ily declared that it was a matter of utter 
indifference to him whether his landlady 
I went at the end of March to pay a three 
weeks’ visit to her eldest sister or whether 
she stayed at home. He took very little 
1 notice when Mrs. Bryant told him of her 
intention. She talked for some time. 
When she was gone Thorne found him- 
self left with the impression that the lady 

I in question was a Mrs. Smith, who resided 
somewhere in Bethnal Green ; that some 
one was a plumber and glazier ; that some 
one had had the measles ; that trade was 
not all one could wish, nor were Mrs. 
Bryant’s relations quite what they should 
have been, but that, she thanked Good- 
ness, they were not all alike. This struck 
him as a reasonable cause for thankful- 
ness, as otherwise there would certainly 
have been a terrible monotony in the 
family circle. He also had an idea that 
Mrs. Smith had received a great deal of 
good advice on the subject of her mar- 


riage, and he rather thought that Smith 
was not the sort of man to make a wo- 
man happy. “Either Smith isn’t, or Bry- 
ant wasn’t when he was alive — now which 
was it?’’ smiled Percival to himself, ruf- 
fling his wavy hair and leaning back in 
his chair with a confused sense of relief. 
And then the dispute about the grand- 
mother’s crockery came in, and the un- 
cle who had a bit of money and married 
the widow at Margate. “ I hope to Good- 
ness Mrs. Bryant will stay away some 
time if she has half as much to say on 
her return !’’ 

The good woman had not gone into 
Mr. Thorne’s room for the purpose of 
giving him all this information. It had 
come naturally to her lips when she found 
herself there, but she merely wished to 
suggest to him that Lydia would be busy 
while she was away, and money-matters 
were terribly muddling, weren’t they ? 
and perhaps it would make it easier if 
Mr. Thorne’s bill stood over. Percival 
understood in a moment. The careworn 
face, the confused manner, told him all. 
Lydia would probably waste the money, 
and the old lady, though with percepti- 
ble hesitation, had decided to trust him 
rather than her daughter. It was so. 
Lydia considered that her mother was 
stingy, and that finery was indispensa- 
ble while she was husband-hunting. 

“You see, there’ll be one less to feed, 
and it would only bother her ; and you’ve 
always been so regular with your mon- 
ey,’’ said Mrs. Bryant wistfully. 

“Oh, I see, perfectly,’’ Thorne replied. 
“I won’t trouble Miss Bryant about it. 
It shall be all ready for you when you 
come back, of course. A pleasant jour- 
ney to yoa!’’ 

The old lady went off, not without 
anxiety, but very favorably impressed 
with Percival’s lofty manner. And he 
thought no more about it. But the time 
came when he wished that Mrs. Bryant 
had never thought of visiting Mrs. Smith 
of Bethnal Green at all. 

Easter fell very late that year, far on 
in April, and it seemed to Judith that 
the holidays would never come. At last, 
however, they were within a week of the 
breaking-up day. It was Sunday, and 


218 


*^FOR PERClVALr 


she could say to herself, “ Next Thurs* 
day I shall be free.” 

Bertie and she had just breakfasted, 
and he was leaning in his favorite atti- 
tude against the chimney-piece. She 
had taxed him with looking ill, but he 
had smilingly declared that there was 
nothing amiss with him. 

“Do you sleep well, Bertie ?” she ask- 
ed wistfully. 

” Pretty well. Not very much last night, 
by the way. But you are whiter than I 
am : look at yourself in the glass. Even 
if you deduct the green — ” 

Judith gazed into the verdant depths. 
” I don’t know how much to allow,” she 
said thoughtfully. ” By the way, Bertie, 
I’m not going with you to St. Sylvester’s 
this morning.” 

“All right!” said Bertie. 

” I have a fancy to go to St. Andrew’s 
for once,” said Judith, arranging the rib- 
bon at her throat as she spoke — ‘‘just for 
a change. You don’t mind, do you 

‘‘Mind? no,” said Bertie, but some- 
thing in his voice caused her to look 
round. He was as pale as death, grasp- 
ing the chimney-piece with one hand 
while the other was pressed upon his 
heart. 

‘‘ Bertie ! You are ill I Lean on me.” 
The little sofa was close by, and she 
helped him to it and ran for eau de 
cologne. When she came back he was 
lying with his head thrown back, white 
and still, yet looking more like himself 
than in that first ghastly moment. Pres- 
ently the blood came back to cheek and 
lip, and he looked up and smiled. ‘‘You 
are better ?” she said anxiously. 

‘‘Oh yes. I’m better. I’m all right. 
Can’t think what made me make such 
a fool of myself.” 

‘‘ No, don’t get up : lie still a little long- 
er,” said Judith, standing over him with 
the wicker flask in her hand. ‘‘ Oh, how 
you frightened me I” 

‘‘Don’t pour any more of that stuff 
over me,” he answered languidly. ‘‘You 
must have expended quarts. I can feel 
little rivulets of it creep -creeping at the 
roots of my hair.” 

‘‘ But, Bertie, what was the matter with 
you ?” 


‘‘I hardly know. It’s all over now. 
My heart seemed to stop beating just for 
a moment. I wonder if it did, really ? 
Or should I have died? Do sit down, 
Judith. You look as if you were going 
to faint too.” 

She sat down by him. After a min- 
ute Bertie’s slim, long fingers groped 
restlessly, and she held them in a tender 
grasp. So for some time they remained 
hand in hand. Judith watched him fui- 
tively as he lay with closed eyes, his fair 
boyish face pressed on the dingy cush- 
ion, and a great tenderness lighted her 
quiet glance. Suddenly, Bertie’s eyes 
opened and met hers. She answered 
his look of inquiry: ‘‘You are all I have, 
dear. We two are alone, are -yve not ? I 
must be anxious if you are ill.” 

He pressed her hand, but he turned 
his face a little away, conscious at the 
same moment of a flush of self-reproach 
and of a lurking smile. "Don’t!” he 
said. "I’m not ill. Pm all right now 
— never better, Isn’t it time for me to 
be off? I say, my dear girl, if you don’t 
look sharp you’ll be late at St. Andrew’s.” 

"St. Andrew’s!” she repeated scorn- 
fully. "/ go to St. Andrew’s now, and 
think all the service through that my 
bad boy may be fainting at St. Sylves- 
ter’s ! No, no : I shall go with you.” 

"Thank you,” said Bertie, sitting up 
and running his fingers through his hair 
by way of preparation for church. “I 
shall be glad, if you don’t mind.” 

"That is,” she went on, "if you are fit 
to go at all.” 

"Oh yes. I couldn’t leave old Clifton 
in the lurch for anything short of sud- 
den death, and even then he’d feel him- 
self ill used. Stay at home because I felt 
faint ? It would be as much as my place 
is worth,” said Bertie with a smile of 
which Judith could not understand the 
fine irony. 

“ I'll go and get ready,” she said. But 
she went to the door of Percival’s sitting- 
room and knocked. 

"Come in,” he answered, and she 
opened it. He was stooping over his 
fire, poker in hand. She paused on the 
threshold, and, after breaking a hard 
lump of coal, he looked over his shoul- 


^^FOR PERCIVALR 


219 


der : “ Miss Lisle ! I beg your pardon. 
I thought they had come for the break- 
fast things.” 

"Oh!” she said, in a slightly disap- 
pointed tone. "You are not going to 
church to-day.” For Thorne was more 
picturesquely careless in his apparel than 
is the wont of the British church-goer. 

A rapid change of mind enabled him 
to answer truthfully, "Yes, I am. I ought 
to get ready, I suppose. Did you want 
me for anything. Miss Lisle ?” 

" Were you going to St. Sylvester’s, or 
not ?” 

Percival had known by her tone that 
she wanted him to go to church. But 
he did not know which church claimed 
his attendance, so he answered cautious- 
/ ly, " Oh, I hardly know. I think I should 
like some one to make up my mind for 
me. Are you going with your brother ?” 

"Yes,” said Judith. "He isn’t very 
well to-day. I was rather frightened by 
his fainting just now.” 

"Of course I’ll go with you,” said Per- 
cival. "I’ll be ready in two minutes. 
Been fainting? Is he better now?” 

" Much better. Will you really ?” And 
Judith vanished. 

Percival was perhaps a little longer 
than the time he had named, but he 
soon came out in a very different cha- 
racter from that of the young man who 
had lounged over his late breakfast in 
his shabby coat. He looked anxiously 
at young Lisle as they started, but Ber- 
tie’s appearance was hardly such as to 
call for immediate alarm. He seemed 
well enough, Percival thought, though 
perhaps a little excited. In truth, there 
was not much amiss with him. He 
had got over the uneasy sense of self- 
reproach : the sudden shock which had 
caused his dismay was past, and as he 
went his way, solemnly escorted by his 
loving sister and his devoted friend, he 
was suffering much more from suppress- 
ed laughter than from anything else. 
Everything was a joke, and the narrow- 
ness of his escape that morning was a 
greater joke than all. "By Jove! what 
a laugh we will have over it one of these 
days!” thought Lisle as he put on his 
surplice. 


Loving eyes followed him as he went 
to his place, and his name was fondly 
breathed in loving prayers. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

THE LAST MUSlC-LESSON. 

On the Tuesday morning Bertie was 
late for breakfast, and came in yawning 
rather ostentatiously. Judith protested 
good-humoredly: "Lie in bed late or 
yawn, but you can’t want to do both. 
Why, it is eleven hours since you went 
up to bed!” This was perfectly true, 
but not so much to the point as she 
supposed. 

Ever since the mysterious fainting-fit 
Judith had watched him with tender anx- 
iety, and it seemed to her that there was 
something strange in his manner that 
morning. She did not know what it was, 
but had she held any clew to his thoughts 
she would have perceived that Bertie was 
astonished and bewildered. He looked 
as if a dream had suddenly become a 
reality, as if a jest had turned into mar- 
vellous earnest. He smoked his pipe, 
leaning by the open window, with a se- 
rious and almost awestruck expression 
in his eyes. One might have fancied 
that he was transformed visibly to him- 
self, and was perplexed to find that the 
change was invisible to others. Judith 
could not understand this quiet gravity. 

She came up to him and laid her hand 
caressingly on his shoulder. He did not 
turn, but pointed with the stem of his 
pipe across the street. "Look !” he said. 
"There’s a bit of houseleek on those tiles. 
I never saw it till to-day.” 

"Nor 1.” 

"It looks green and pleasant,” said 
Bertie in a gentle, meditative voice. " I 
like it.” 

"Our summer garden,” Judith sug- 
gested. 

" I wonder if there’s any houseleek on 
our roof?” he went on after a moment. 

"We will hope so, for our neighbors’ 
sake,” said his sister. " It’s a new idea 
to me. I thought our roof was nothing 
but tiles and cats — principally cats.” 

Bertie smoked his pipe, and surveyed 


220 


FOR perc/val: 


the houseleek as if it were a newly-dis- 
covered star. Everything was strange 
and wonderful that morning. Vague 
ideas floated in the atmosphere, half 
seen against the background of com- 
mon things. The mood, born of excep- 
tional circumstances, was unique in his 
life. Had it been habitual, there would 
have been hope of a new poet, or, since 
his taste lay in the direction of )Vordless 
harmony, of a great musician. 

“You won’t be late at the square, Ber- 
tie dear?” said Judith. 

“ No, ril not be late,’’ he answered ab- 
sently. He felt that the pale gold of the 
April sunlight was beautiful even in Belle- 
vue street. 

“The last lesson,’’ she said. Bertie, 
suddenly roused, looked round at her 
with startled eyes. “ What ! had you 
forgotten that the girls go home to- 
morrow ?’’ cried Judith in great sur- 
prise. She had counted the days so 
often. 

He laughed shortly and uneasily: “I 
suppose I had. Queer, wasn’t it? Yes, 
it’s my last lesson, as you say. If I had 
only thought of it, I might have com- 
posed a Lament, taught it to all my pu- 
pils, and charged a fancy price for it in 
the bill.’’ 

“ That would have been very touching. 
A little tiresome to you perhaps, and to 
Miss Crawford — ’’ 

“ Bless you ! she’s always asleep,’’ said 
Bertie, knocking the ashes out of his pipe 
and pocketing it. “ I might teach them 
the Old Hundredth, one after the other, 
all the morning through : she wouldn’t 
know. So your work ends to-morrow ?’’ 

“Not quite. The girls go to-morrow, 
but I have promised to be at the square 
on Thursday. There’s a good deal to be 
done, and I should like to see Miss Craw- 
ford safely off in the afternoon.’’ 

“Where’s the old woman going?’’ 

“ To Cromer for a few days. She lived 
there as a child, and loves it more than 
any place in the world.’’ 

“ Does the poor old lady think she’ll 
grow young again there?’’ said Bertie. 
“Well, perhaps she will,’’ he added af- 
ter a pause. “At any rate, she may for- 
get that she has grown old.’’ 


Punctually at the appointed hour the 
young music-master arrived in Standon 
Square. It was for the last time, as Ju- 
dith had said. Miss Crawford looked 
older, and Miss Crawford’s cap looked 
newer, than either had ever done before. 
She put her weak little hand into Bertie’s, 
and said some prim, kindly words about 
the satisfaction his lessons had given, the 
progress his pupils had made and the con- 
fidence she felt in his sister and himself. 
As she spoke she was sure he was grat- 
ified, for the color mounted to his face. 
Suddenly she stopped in the midst of her 
neatly-worded sentences. “ You are like 
your mother, Mr. Lisle,’’ she said : “ I 
never saw it so much before.’’ And she 
murmured something, half to herself, 
about her first pupil, the dearest of them 
all. Bertie, for once in his life, was si- 
lent and bashful. 

The old lady rang the bell, and re- 
quested that Miss Macdonald might be 
told that it was time for her lesson and 
that Mr. Lisle had arrived. During the 
brief interval that ensued the music-mas- 
ter looked furtively round the room, as 
if he had never seen it before. It seem- 
ed to him almost as if he looked at it with 
different eyes, and read Miss Crawford’s 
life in it. It was a prim, light -colored 
drawing-room, adorned with many tri- 
fles which were interesting as indications 
of patience and curious in point of taste. 
There was a great deal of worsted work, 
and still more of crochet. Everything 
that could possibly stand on a mat stood 
on a mat, and other mats lay disconso- 
lately about, waiting as cabmen wait for 
a fare. Every piece of furniture was care- 
fully arranged with a view to supporting 
the greatest possible number of anti-ma- 
cassars. There were water-color paint- 
ings on the walls, and bouquets of wax 
flowers bloomed gayly under glass shades 
on every table. There were screens, cush- 
ions, pen-wipers. Bertie calculated that 
Miss Crawford’s drawing-room might 
yield several quarts of beads. He had 
seen all these things many times, but 
they had acquired a new meaning and 
interest that day. 

Miss Macdonald appeared, and Miss 
Crawford seated herself on a pink rose. 


^^FOR PERCIP^ALF 


221 


about the size of a Jersey cabbage, with 
two colossal buds, and rested her tired 
back against a similar group. At the 
first notes of the piano her watchful and 
smiling face relaxed and she nodded 
wearily in the background. It did not 
matter much. The young master was 
grave, silent, patient, conscientious. In 
fact, it did not matter at all. Having 
slept through the earlier lessons, the 
schoolmistress might well sleep through 
this. It was rather a pity that, instead 
of taking a placid and unbroken rest on 
the sofa, she sat stiffly on a worked chair 
and started into uneasy wakefulness be- 
tween the lessons, dismissing one girl 
and sending for the next with infinite 
politeness and propriety. At last she 
said, “And will you have the kindness 
to tell Miss Nash ?’’ 

Bertie sat turning over a piece of mu- 
sic till the sound of the opening door told 
him that his pupil had arrived. Then he 
rose and looked in her direction, but 
avoided her eyes. 

There was no school-girl slovenliness 
about Emmeline Nash. Her gray dress 
was fresh and neat, a tiny bunch of 
spring flowers was fastened in it, a rib- 
bon of delicate blue was round her neck. 
As she came forward with a slight flush 
on her cheek, her head carried defiant- 
ly and the sunlight shining on her pale 
hair. Miss Crawford said to herself that 
really she was a stylish girl, ladylike 
and pretty. Her schoolfellows declared 
that Emmeline always went about with 
her mouth hanging open. But that day 
the parted lips had an innocent expres- 
sion of wonder and expectation. 

The lesson was begun in as business- 
like a fashion as the others. Perhaps 
Emmeline regaled the young master 
with a few more false notes than usual, 
but she was curiously intent on the page 
before her. Presently she stole a glance 
over her shoulder at Miss Crawford. She 
was asleep. Emmeline played a few 
bars mechanically, and then she turned 
to Bertie. 

The eyes which met her own had an 
anxious, tender, almost reverential, ex- 
pression. This slim fair girl had sud- 
denly become a very wonderful being 


to Lisle, and he touched her hand with 
delicate respect and looked strangely at 
her pretty vacant face. 

Had there been the usual laughter 
lurking in his glance, Emmeline would 
have giggled. Her nerves were tensely 
strung, and giggling was her sole expres- 
sion for a wide range of emotion. But 
his gravity astonished her so much that 
she looked at the page before her again, 
and went on playing with her mouth 
open. 

Toward the close of the lesson master 
and pupil exchanged a few whispered 
words. "You may rely on me,” said 
Bertie finally : “ what did I promise this 
morning?” He spoke cautiously, watch- 
ing Miss Crawford. She moved in her 
light slumber and uttered an inarticulate 
sound. The young people started asun- 
der and blushed a guilty red. Emme- 
line, with an unfounded assumption of 
presence of mind, began to play a vari- 
ation containing such loud and agitated 
discords that further slumber must have 
been miraculous. But Lisle interposed. 
“Gently,” he said. “Let me show you 
how that should be played.” And he 
lulled the sleeper with the tenderest 
harmony. 

In due time the lesson came to an 
end. Miss Crawford presided over the 
farewell, and regretted that it was really 
Miss Nash’s last lesson, as (though Mr. 
Lisle perhaps was not aware of it) she 
was not coming back to Standon Square. 
Mr. Lisle in his turn expressed much re- 
gret, and said that he should miss his 
pupil. “You must on no account forget 
to practise every day,” said the old lady, 
turning to Emmeline. — “Must she, Mr. 
Lisle ?” 

Mr. Lisle hoped that Miss Nash would 
devote at least three hours every day to 
her music. The falsehood was so au- 
dacious that he shuddered as he uttered 
it. He made a ceremonious bow and 
fled. 

Going back to Bellevue street, he lock- 
ed himself into his room and turned out 
all his worldly goods. A little port- 
manteau was carefully packed with a se- 
lection from them, and hidden away in 
a cupboard, and the rest were laid by as 


222 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


nearly as possible in their accustomed examined its contents with dissatisfied 
order. Then he took out his purse and eyes. “ Can’t get on without the sinews 



of war," Bertie soliloquized. ‘‘I might 
manage with double as much perhaps, 
but how shall I get it? Spoiling the 


Egyptians would be the scriptural course 
of conduct I suppose, and I’m ready; 
but where are the Egyptians ? I won- 


SHE WAS ASLEEP.” — Page 221. 




^^FOR PERCIVALF 


223 


der if Judith keeps a hoard anywhere ? 
Or Lydia ? Shall I go and ask her to 
lend me jewels of silver and jewels of 
gold ? Poor Lydia ! I fear I could hard- 
ly find a plausible excuse for borrowing 
the blue earrings. And I doubt they 
wouldn’t help me much. No, I must 
find some better plan than that.” 

He was intensely excited : his flushed 
cheek and glittering eyes betrayed it. 
But the feelings of the morning had worn 
off in the practical work of packing and 
preparing for his flight. Perhaps it was 
as well they had, for they could hardly 
have survived an interview with Lydia 
in the afternoon. She was suspicious, 
and required coaxing to begin with. 

“Why, what’s the matter, Lydia?” 
said Lisle at last in his gentles\ voice. 
“You might do this for me.” 

“You are always wanting something 
done for you.” 

“Oh, Lydia! and Pve been such a 
good boy lately I” 

“Too good by half,” said Lydia. 

“And a month ago I was always too 
bad. How am I to hit your precise 
taste in wickedness ?” 

“Oh, I ain’t particular to a shade,” 
said Lydia, “ as you might know by my 
helping you to deceive ma and your sis- 
ter. But as to your goodness, I don’t 
believe in it : so there 1 Don’t tell me ! 
'People don’t give up all at once, and go 
to bed at ten o'clock every night, and 
turn as good as all that. It’s my belief 
you mean to bolt. What have you been 
doing ?” 

“ Look here, Lydia, I’ve told you once, 
and I tell you again : I want a holiday, 
and I’m off for two or three days by my- 
self — can’t be tied to my sister’s apron- 
string all my life. But I would rather not 
have any fuss about it, so I shall just go 
quietly, and send her a line when I’ve 
started. I want you to get that portman- 
teau off, so that I may pick it up at the 
station to-morrow morning. I did think 
I might count on you," said Bertie with 
heartrending pathos : delicately - shaded 
acting would have been wasted on Miss 
Bryant. “You’ve always been as true 
as steel. But it seems I was mistaken. 
Well, no matter. If my sister makes a 


scene about my going away, it can’t be 
helped. Perhaps I was wrong to keep 
my little secrets from her and trust them 
to any one else.” 

“I don’t say that,” Lydia replied. 
“ P’raps others may do as well or bet- 
ter by you.” 

“Thank you all the same for your 
former kindness,” Bertie continued in 
a tone of gentle resignation, ignoring 
her remark. “Since you won’t, there 
is nothing more to be said.” 

“ What do you want to fly off in that 
fashion for ?” said Lydia. “I’ll see about 
your portmanteau if this is all true — ” 

Bertie assumed an insulted-gentleman 
air: it was extremely lofty: “Oh, if you 
doubt me. Miss Bryant — ” 

“Gracious me ! You are touchy 1” ex- 
claimed poor Lydia in perplexity and dis- 
tress. “ Only one word : you haven’t been 
doing anything bad ?” 

“On my honor — no,” said Bertie 
haughtily. 

“And there’s nothing wrong about the 
portmanteau ?” 

“Oh, this is too much I” Lisle exclaim- 
ed. “ I can’t be cross-questioned in this 
fashion — even hy you." The careless pa- 
renthesis was not without effect. “ Wrong 
about it — no I But we’ll leave the subject 
altogether, if you please. I won’t trouble 
you any further.” 

It was evident to Lydia that he was of- 
fended. There was an angry light in his 
eyes and his cheeks were flushed. “ You 
are unkind,” she said. “I’ll see about it 
for you; and you knew I would.” She saw 
Bertie’s handsome face dimly through a 
mist of gathering tears. 

“Crying?” said Lisle. “Not for me, 
Lydia ? I’m not worth it.” 

“That I’ll be bound you are not,” said 
the girl. 

“Then why do you do it?” 

“Perhaps you think we always mea- 
sure our tears, and mind we don’t give 
over- weight,” said Lydia scornfully. 
“Shouldn’t cry much at that rate, I 
expect. I do it because I’m a fool, if 
you particularly want to know.” 

Lisle was wondering what style of an- 
swer would be suitable and harmless 
when Mr. Fordham came up the stairs. 


224 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


Lydia saw him, exclaimed, “Oh my good 
gracious !” and vanished, while Bertie 
strolled into his room, invoking bless- 
ings on the old man’s head. 

That evening there was a choir-prac- 
tice at St. Sylvester’s. Mr. Clifton was 
peculiarly tiresome, and the young or- 
ganist replied with an air of easy scorn, 
the more irritating that it was so good- 
humored. Had the worthy incumbent 
been a shade less musical there would 
have been a quarrel then and there. 
But how could he part with a man who 
played so splendidly ? Bertie received 
his instructions as to their next meeting 
with an unmoved face. “ It is so import- 
ant now that Easter is so near,’’ said the 
clergyman. “Thursday evening, and you 
won’t be late ?’’ 

“Au revoir, then,’’ said Lisle airily, 
“since we are to meet so soon.’’ And 
with a pleasant smile he went his way. 

When he got back he found Judith at 
home, looking worn and white. He was 
tenderly reproachful. “I’m sure you want 
your tea,’’ he said. “You should not have 
thought about me.’’ He waited on her, 
he busied himself about her in a dozen 
little ways. He was bright, gay, affec- 
tionate. A faint color flushed her face 
and a smile dawned on her lips. How 
could she fail to be pleased and touch- 
ed ? How could she do otherwise than 
smile at this paragon of young brothers ? 
He talked of holiday schemes in a happy 
though rather random fashion. He sang 
snatches of songs softly in his pleasant 
tenor voice. 

“ Bertie, our mother used to sing that,’’ 
said Judith after one of them. 

“ Did she ?’’ He paused. “ I don’t re- 
member.’’ 

“No, you can’t,’’ she answered sor- 
rowfully. “I wish you could.’’ 

“ I’ve only the faintest and most shad- 
owy recollection — just a dim idea of some- 
body,’’ he replied. “But in my little child- 
ish troubles I always had you. I don’t 
think I wanted any one else.’’ 

Judith took his hand in hers, and held 
it for a moment fondly clasped: “You 
can’t think how much I like to hear 
you say that.’’ 

Lisle blushed, and was thankful for 


the dim light. “Do you know,’’ he said 
hurriedly, “ I rather think I may have a 
chance of giving old Clifton warning be- 
fore long ?’’ 

“Oh, Bertie! Where could you get 
anything else as good ?’’ 

“Not five -and -twenty miles away.’’ 
Bertie named a place which they had 
passed on their journey to Brenthill. 
“ Gordon of our choir told me of it this 
evening. I think I shall run over to- 
morrow and make inquiries.’’ 

“But why would it be so much bet- 
ter?’’ " 

“There’s a big grammar school and 
they have a chapel. I should be organ- 
ist there.’’ 

“But do they pay more?’’ she per- 
sisted. * 

“ Hardly as much to the organist per- 
haps. But I could give lessons in the 
school, Gordon tells me, and make no 
end of money so. Oh, it would be a first- 
rate thing for me.’’ 

“And for me ?’’ 

“ Oh, I hope you won’t have to go on 
slaving for Miss Crawford. You must 
come and keep house — ’’ Bertie stop- 
ped abruptly. He could deceive on a 
grand scale, but these small fibs, which 
came unexpectedly, confused him and 
stuck in his throat. 

“ Keep house for you ? Is that all I 
am to do ? Bertie, how rich do you 
hope to be ?’’ 

“ Rich enough to keep you very soon,’’ 
he answered gravely. 

“ But does Mr. Gordon think you have 
a chance of this appointment ?’’ 

“Why not?’’ said Bertie. “I am fit 
for it.’’ There was no arrogance in his 
simple statement of the fact. 

“ I know you are. All the same, I 
think I won’t give up my situation till 
we see how this new plan turns out. 
And I don’t want to be idle.’’ 

“But I don't want you to work,’’ said 
Bertie. “You are killing yourself, and 
you know it. Well, this is worth inquir- 
ing about at any rate, isn’t it?’’ 

“Yes, it certainly is. It sounds very 
pleasant. But pray don’t be rash : don’t 
give up what you have already until you 
quite see your way.’’ 


^*FOR PERCIVALF 


225 


“No, but I think I do see it. I’ll just 
take the 8.35 train to-morrow and find 
out how the land lies. I can be back 
early in the afternoon.” 

So the matter was settled. As they 
went off to bed Lisle casually remarked 
that he had not seen Thorne that day : 
“Is he out, I wonder?” 

Miss Bryant was making her nightly 
examination of the premises. She over- 
heard the remark as she turned down the 
gas in the passage, and informed them 
that when Mr. Thorne came in from the 
office he complained of a headache, ask- 
ed for a cup of tea and went early to bed. 
“ Poor fellow !" said Lisle. — "Good-night, 
Miss Bryant.” 

Apparently, Percival’s headache did 
not keep him in bed, for a light gleam- 
ed dimly in his sitting-room late that 
Tuesday night. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

A THUNDERBOLT IN STANDON SQUARE. 

It was just one o’clock on the follow- 
ing Thursday, and Thorne was walking 
from the office to Bellevue street. He 
had adopted a quicker and more busi- 
ness-like pace than in old days, and 
came down the street with long steps, 
his head high and an abstracted expres- 
sion on his face. Suddenly he stopped. 
“Miss Lisle!” he exclaimed. “Good 
God! What is the matter 

It was Judith, but so pale, with fear 
and horror looking so terribly out of her 
eyes, that she was like a spectre of her- 
self. She stopped short as he had done, 
and gazed blankly at him. 

“Judith, what is it?” he repeated. 
“For God’s sake, speak! What is the 
matter ?” 

He saw that she made a great effort 
to look like her usual self, and that she 
partly succeeded. “ I don’t know,” she 
answered. “Please come, Mr. Thorne, 
but don’t say anything to me yet. Not 
a word, please.” 

In silence he offered her his arm. She 
took it, and they went on together. 
Something in Judith Lisle always ap- 
pealed with peculiar force to Percival’s 

15 


loyalty. He piqued himself on not even 
looking inquiringly at his companion as 
they walked, but he felt her hand quiver- 
ing on his arm, and his brain was busy 
with conjectures. “ Bertie has been away 
the last day or two,” he said to himself. 
“ Can she have heard any bad news of 
him ? But why is she so mysterious 
about it, for she is not the g^rl to make 
a needless mystery ?” When they reach- 
ed Bellevue street she quitted his arm, 
thanked him with a look and went up 
stairs. Percival followed her. 

She opened the door of her sitting- 
room and looked in. Then she turned 
to the young man, who stood gravely in 
the background as if awaiting her orders. 

“Will you come in?” she said. But 
when she thought he was about to speak 
she made a quick sign with her hand : 
“Not yet, please.” 

The cloth was laid, but some books 
and papers had been pushed to one end 
of the table. Judith went to them and 
lifted them carefully, as if she were look- 
ing for something. Then she went to 
the little side -table, then to the chim- 
ney-piece, still seeking, while Thorne 
stood by the window silently waiting. 

The search was evidently unavailing, 
and Judith rang the bell. During the 
pause which ensued she rested her elbow 
on the back of Bertie’s easy -chair and 
covered her eyes with her hand. She 
was shaking from head to foot, but when 
the door opened she stood up and tried 
to speak in her usual voice : “ Are there 
any letters by the second post for me, 
Emma ?” 

The little maid looked wonderingly at 
Mr. Thorne and then at Miss Lisle : “No, 
ma’am: I always bring ’em up.” 

“ I know you do, but I thought they 
might have been forgotten. Will you 
ask Miss Bryant if she is quite sure none 
came for me this morning?” 

There was another silence while Em- 
ma went on her errand. She came back 
with Miss Bryant’s compliments, and no 
letters had come for Miss Lisle. 

“Thank you,” said Judith. “That will 
do. I will ring when I want dinfter 
brought in.” 

When they were left alone Pered»val 


226 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


stepped forward. “What is it?” he said. 
“You will tell me now.” 

She answered with averted eyes: “You 
know that our school broke up yesterday ? 
Emmeline Nash went away by the nine- 
o’clock train, but she has never gone 
home.” 

“Has never gone home!” Percival 
repeated. “That is very strange. She 
must have met with some accident.” 
There was no answer. “ It may not be 
anything serious : surely, you are dis- 
tressing yourself too much.” 

Judith looked up into his face with 
questioning eyes. 

“Or perhaps it is some school -girl 
freak,” Thorne went on. “Naturally, 
Miss Crawford must be very anxious, 
but don’t make up your mind to the 
worst till you know for certain.” 

Still that anxious questioning look, as 
if she would read his very soul. Perci- 
val was startled and perplexed, and his 
eyes made no response. The girl turn- 
ed away with a faint cry of impatience 
and despair: “And I am his own sister!” 

Percival stood for a moment thunder- 
struck. Then “Bertie?” he said. 

“But you did not think of him till I 
spoke,” she answered passionately. “It 
was my doing — mine !” 

“Where is Bertie?” Thorne asked 
the question with something of her fear 
in his eyes. 

“ I don’t know. I had that yesterday 
morning.” 

He took a pencilled scrap of paper 
from her hand. Bertie had written, “ I 
find I cannot be back this afternoon, 
probably not till to-morrow. Don’t ex- 
pect me till you see me, and don’t be 
anxious about me. All right. — Your 
H. L.” 

“How did you get this?” he asked, 
turning it uneasily in his fingers. 

“A boy brought it from the station not 
half an hour after he went.” 

Percival was silent. A sudden cer- 
tainty had sprung up in his mind, and 
it made any attempt at reassuring her 
little better than a lie. Yet he felt as if 
his certainty were altogether unfounded. 
He could assign no reason for it. The 
truth was, that Bertie himself was the 


reason, and Percival knew him better 
than he had supposed. 

“ Mr. Thorne,” said Judith, “ don’t you 
hate me for what I’ve said ? Surely you 
must. Miss Crawford doesn’t dream that 
Bertie has anything to do with this. And 
you didn’t, for I watched your eyes: you 
never would have thought of him but for 
me. It is I, his own sister, who have 
hinted it. He has nobody but me, and 
when his back is turned I accuse him 
of being so base, so cruel, so mercenary, ^ 
that — ” She stopped and tried to steady 
her voice. Suddenly she turned and 
pointed to the door: “And if he came 
in there now, this minute — oh, Bertie, 
my Bertie, if you would I — if he stood 
there now, I should have slandered him 
without a shadow of proof. Oh, it is 
odious, horrible ! The one in all the 
world who should have clung to him 
and believed in him, and I have thought 
this of him ! Say it is horrible, unnatural. 
— reproach me — leave me ! Oh, my God ! 
you can’t.” 

And in truth Percival stood mute and 
grave, holding the shred of paper in his 
hand and making no sign through all the 
questioning pauses in her words. But 
her last appeal roused him. “No,” he 
said gently, “I can’t reproach you. If 
you ,are the first to think this, don’t I 
know that you will be the one to hope 
and pray when others give up ?” He 
took her hands in his : she suffered him 
to do what he would. “ How should Miss 
Crawford think of him ?” he said. “ Pray 
God we may be mistaken, and if Bertie 
comes back can we not keep silence for 
ever ?” 

“ I could not look him in the face.” 

“Tell me all,” said Thorne. “Where 
did he say he was going ? Tell me every- 
thing. If you are calm and if we lose no 
time, we may unravel this mystery and 
clear Bertie altogether before any harm 
is done. As you say, there is no shad- 
ow of proof. Miss Nash may have gone 
away alone : school-girls have silly fan- 
cies. Or perhaps some accident on the 
line — ” 

“No,” said Judith. 

“ No ? Are you sure ? Sit down and 
tell me all.” 


^^FOR PERCIVAL. 


227 


She obeyed to the best of her ability. 
She told him what Bertie had said about 
the situation he hoped to obtain, and 
what little she knew about Emmeline’s 
disappearance. 

Percival listened, with a face which 
grew more anxious with every word. 

This is what had actually happened 
that morning at Standon Square : Judith 
was busy over Miss Crawford’s accounts. 
She remembered so well the column of 
figures, and the doubtful hieroglyphic 
which might be an 8, but was quite as 
likely to be a 3. While she sat gazing 
at it and weighing probabilities in her 
mind the housemaid appeared, with an 
urgent request that she would go to Miss 
Crawford at once. Obeying the sum- 
mons, she found the old lady looking 
at an unopened letter which lay on the 
table before her. 

“My dear,’’ said the little schoolmis- 
tress, “look at this.’’ There was a tone 
of hurried anxiety in her voice, and she 
held it out with fingers that trembled a 
little. 

It was directed in a gentleman’s hand, 
neat and old-fashioned: “Miss Emme- 
line Nash, care of Miss Crawford, Mon- 
tague House, Standon Square, Brenthill.’’ 

Judith glanced eagerly at the envelope. 
For a moment she had feared that it might 
be some folly of Bertie’s addressed to one 
of the girls. But this was no writing of 
his, and she breathed again. “To Em- 
meline,’’ she said. “ From some one who 
did not know when you broke up. Did 
you want me to direct it to be forwarded ?’’ 

“Forwarded? where? Do you know 
who wrote that letter ?’’ By this time 
Miss Crawford’s crisp ribbons were quiv- 
ering like aspen-leaves. 

“ No : who ? Is there anything wrong 
about this correspondent of Emmeline’s ? 
I thought you would forward it to her at 
home. Dear Miss Crawford, what is the 
matter ?’’ 

“That is Mr. Nash’s writing. Oh, Ju- 
dith, what does it mean ? She went away 
yesterday to his house, and he writes to 
her here!’’ 

The girl was taken aback for a mo- 
ment, but her swift common sense came 
to her aid : “ It means that Mr. Nash has 


an untrustworthy servant who has car 
ried his master’s letter in his pocket, and 
posted it a day too late rather than own 
his carelessness. Some directions about 
Emmeline’s journey : open it and see.’’ 

“Ah! possibly: I never thought of 
that,’’ said Miss Crawford, feeling for 
her glasses. “But,” her fears returning 
in a moment, “I ought to have heard 
from Emmeline.’’ 

“ When ? She would hardly write the 
night she got there. You were sure not 
to hear this morning : you know how she 
puts things off. The mid-day post will 
be in directly : perhaps you’ll hear then. 
Open the letter now and set your mind 
at rest.’’ 

The envelope was torn open. “Now, 
you’ll see he wrote it on the i8th — 
Good Heavens ! it’s dated yesterday !’’ 

“My dear Emmeline: Since Miss 
Crawford wishes you to remain two days 
longer for this lesson you talk of, I can 
have no possible objection, but I wish 
you could have let me know a little 
sooner. You very thoughtfully say you 
will not give me the trouble of writing 
if I grant your request. I suppose it 
never occurred to you that by the time 
your letter reached me every arrange- 
ment had been made for your arrival — a 
greater trouble, which might have been 
avoided if you had written earlier. Nei- 
ther did you give me much choice in the 
matter. 

“But I will not find fault just when 
you are coming home. I took you at 
your word when your letter arrived yes- 
terday, and did not write. But to-day it 
has occurred to me that after all you might 
like a line, and that Miss Crawford would 
be glad to know that you will be met at 
the end of your journey.’’ 

Compliments to the schoolmistress fol- 
lowed, and the signature, 

“ Henry Nash.’’ 

The two women read this epistle with 
intense anxiety. But while Miss Craw- 
ford was painfully deciphering it, and 
had only realized the terrible fact that 
Emmeline was lost, the girl’s quicker 
brain had snatched its meaning at a 
glance. She saw the cunning scheme 


228 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


to secure two days of unsuspected lib- 
erty. Who had planned this ? Who had 
so cleverly dissuaded Mr. Nash from writ- 
ing ? And what had the brainless, senti- 
mental school-girl done with the time ? 

“Where is she ?” cried Miss Crawford, 
clinging feebly to Judith. “ Oh, has there 
been some accident ?” 

“No accident,” said Judith. “Do you 
not see that it was planned beforehand ? 
She never thought of staying till Friday.” 

“No, never. Oh, my dear, I don’t 
seem able to understand. Don’t you 
think perhaps my head will be clearer 
in a minute or two? Where can she 
be ?” 

The poor old lady looked vaguely 
about, as if Miss Nash might be play- 
ing hide-and-seek behind the furniture. 
Her face was veined and ghastly. She 
hardly comprehended the blow which 
was falling upon her, but she shivered 
h^elessly, and thought she should un- 
derstand soon, and looked up at Judith 
with a mute appeal in her dim eyes. 

“Where can she be ?” The girl echo- 
ed Miss Crawford’s words half to herself. 
“What ought we to do ?” 

“ I can’t think why she wrote and told 
them not to meet her on Wednesday,” 
said the old lady. “ So timid as Emme- 
line always was, and she hated travelling 
alone ! Oh, Judith ! Has she run away 
with some one ?” 

A cold hand seemed to clutch Judith’s 
heart, and her face was like marble. Ber- 
tie ! Oh no — no — no ! Not her brother ! 
This treachery could not be his work. 
Yet “Bertie” flashed before her eyes as 
if the name were written in letters of 
flame on Mr. Nash’s open note, on the 
wall, the floor, the ceiling. It swam in 
a fiery haze between Miss Crawford and 
herself. 

She stood with her hands tightly clasp- 
ed and her lips compressed. It seemed 
to her that if she relaxed the tension of 
her muscles for one moment Bertie’s 
name would force its way out in spite 
of her. And even in that first dismay 
she was conscious that she had no ground 
for her belief but an unreasoning instinct 
and the mere fact that Bertie was away. 

“ Help me, Judith !” said Miss Craw- 


ford pitifully. She trembled as she clung 
to the girl’s shoulder. “ I’m not so young 
as I used to be, you know. I don’t feel 
as if I could stand it. Oh, if only your 
mamma were here !” 

Judith answered with a sob. Miss Craw- 
ford’s confession of old age went to her 
heart. So did that pathetic cry, which 
was half longing for her who had been 
so many years at rest, and half for Miss 
Crawford’s own stronger and brighter 
self of bygone days. She put her arm 
round the schoolmistress and held up 
the shaking, unsubstantial little figure. 
“ If Bertie has done this, he has killed 
her,” said the girl to herself, even while 
she declared aloud, “I will help you, 
dear Miss Crawford. I will do all I can. 
Don’t be so unhappy : it may be better 
than we fear.” But the last words, in- 
stead of ringing clear and true, as con- 
solation should, died faintly on her lips. 

Something was done, however. Miss 
Crawford was put on the sofa and had 
a glass of wine, while Judith sent a tele- 
gram in her name to Mr. Nash. But the 
poor old lady could not rest for a mo- 
ment. She pulled herself up by the help 
of the back of the couch, and sitting 
there, with her ghastly face surmounted 
by a crushed and woebegone cap, she 
went over the same old questions and 
doubts and fears again and again. Ju- 
dith answered her as well as she could, 
and persuaded her to lie down once 
more. But in another moment she was 
up again: “Judith, I want you! Come 
here — come quite close !” 

“Here I am, dear Miss Crawford. 
What is it?” 

The old lady looked fixedly at the 
kneeling figure before her. “ I’ve no- 
body but you, my dear,” she said. “You 
are a little like your mamma sometimes.” 

“Am I ?” said Judith. “So much the 
better. Perhaps it will make you feel 
as if I could help you.” 

“You are not like her to-day. Your 
eyes are so sad and strange.” Judith 
tried to smile. “Your brother, Mr. Her- 
bert, is more like her. I noticed it when 
he was here last. She had just that bright, 
happy look.” 

“I don’t remember that,” Judith an- 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


229 


swered. (One recollected the school-girl, 
and one the wife.) 

“And that sweet smile: Mr. Herbert 
has that too. One could see how good 
she was. But I didn’t mean to talk 
about that. There is something — I 
sha’n’t be easy till I have told some 
one.” 

“Tell me, my dear,” said Judith. 
The schoolmistress looked anxiously 
round: “I may be mistaken — I hope I 
am — but do you know, dear, I doubt 
I’m not quite so wakeful as I ought to 
be. You wouldn’t notice it, of course, 
because it is when I am alone or as good 
as alone. But sometimes — just now and 
then, you know — when I have been with 
the girls while they took their lessons 
from the masters, the time has seemed 
to go so very fast. I should really have 
thought they hadn’t drawn a line when 
the drawing-master has said, ‘ That will 
do for to-day, young ladies,’ and none 
of them seemed surprised. And once 
or twice I really haven’t been quite sure 
what they have been practising with Mr. 
Herbert. But music is so very soothing, 
isn’t it ?” 

Judith held her breath in terror. And 
yet would it not be better if that horrible 
thought came to Miss Crawford too ? If 
others attacked him his sister might de- 
fend. Nevertheless, she drew a long 
sigh of relief when the old lady went 
on, as if confessing a crime of far deep- 
er dye : “And in church — it isn’t easy to 
1 keep awake sometimes, one has heard 
j the service so often, and the sermons 
j seem so very much alike — suppose some 
I unprincipled young man — ” 
i “ Dear Miss Crawford, no one can won- 
I der if you are drowsy now and then. You 
I are always so busy it is only natural.” 

I “But it isn’t right. And,” with the 
quick tears gathering in her eyes, “I 
ought to have owned it before. Only, 
I have tried so hard to keep awake!” 
“I know you have.” 

Miss Crawford drew one of her hands 
from Judith’s clasp to find her handker- 
chief, and then laid her head on the girl’s 
shoulder and sobbed. “ If it has happen- 
ed so,” she said — “ if it has been my care- 
lessness that has done it, I shall never 


forgive myself. Never! For I can nev- 
er say that I didn’t suspect myself of be- 
ing unfit. It will break my heart. I 
have been so proud to think that I had 
never failed any one who trusted me. 
And now a poor motherless girl, who 
was to be my especial care, who had 
no one but me to care for her — Oh, 
Judith, what has become of her?” 

There was silence for a minute. How 
could Judith answer her? 

“ I can never say I didn’t doubt my- 
self ; but it was only a doubt. And how 
could I give up with so many depending 
on me ?” 

“Wait till we know something more,” 
Judith pleaded. “ Wait till we hear what 
Mr. Nash says in answer to your mes- 
sage. I am sure you have tried to act 
for the best.” 

“ I shall never hold up my head again,” 
said Miss Crawford, and laid it feebly 
down as if she were tired out. 

The telegram came. Emmeline had 
not been heard of, and Mr. Nash would 
be at Brenthill that afternoon. 

Judith searched the little room which 
the school-girl had occupied, but no in- 
dication of her intention to fly was to be 
found. She dared not question the ser- 
vants before Mr. Nash’s arrival. Secre- 
cy might be important, and there would 
be an end to all hope of secrecy if once 
suspicion were aroused. 

“ There’s nothing to do but to wait,” 
she said, coming down to Miss Crawford. 
“ I think, if you don’t mind. I’ll go home 
fjor an hour or so.” 

“ No, no, no ! don’t go 1” 

“I must,” said Judith. “I shall not be 
long.” 

“You will.” 

“ No. An hour and a half — two hours 
at the utmost.” 

“Oh, I understand,” said Miss Craw- 
ford. “You will never come back.” 

“Never come back? I will promise 
you, if you like, that I will be here again 
by half-past two — that is, if I go now.” 

“Oh, of course I can’t keep you: if 
you will go, you will. But I think it is 
very cruel of you. You will leave me 
to face Mr. Nash alone.” 

“Indeed I will not,” the girl replied. 


230 


*^FOR PERCIVALF 


"And, after all, it is not half so bad 
for you as for me. He can’t blame you. 
It will kill me, I think, but he can’t say 
anything to you. Oh, Judith, I’m only 
a stupid old woman, but I have meant 
to be kind to you.’’ 

^ "No one could have been kinder,’’ 
said Judith. "Miss Crawford, whatever 
happens, believe me I am grateful.’’ 

"Then you will stop — you will stop? 
He can’t say anything to you, my dear.’’ 

Judith was cold with terror at the 
thought of what Mr. Nash might have 
to say to her. At the same moment she 
was burning with anxiety to get to Belle- 
vue street and find some letter from Ber- 
tie. She freed her hands gently, but 
firmly. Miss Crawford sank back in 
mute despair, as if she had received 
her death-wound. 

"Listen to me,’’ said Judith. "I viust 
go, but I will come back. I would swear 
it, only I don’t quite know how people 
swear,’’ she added with a tremulous little 
laugh. " Dear Miss Crawford, you trusted 
mamma : as surely as I am her daugh- 
ter you may trust me. Won’t you trust 
me, dear?’’ 

" I’ll try,’’ said the old lady. " But why 
must you go ?’’ 

" I must, really.” 

" It won’t be so bad for you : he can’t 
blame you,” Miss Crawford reiterated, 
drearily pleading. "Judith, no one ever 
had the heart to be so cruel as you will 
be if you don’t come back.” 

"But I will,” said Judith. She made 
her escape, and met Percival Thorne on 
her way to Bellevue street. 

"And now what is to be done?” she 
asked, looking up at him when she had 
told him all. "No letter — no sign of 
Bertie.” 

Percival might not be very ready with 
expedients, but his calmness and reserve 
gave an impression of greater resources 
than he actually possessed. He hesitated 
while Judith spoke, but he did not show 
it. There was a pause, during which he 
caught at an idea, and uttered it without 
a trace of indecision. " I’ll look up Gor- 
don,” he said, glancing at his watch. 
" If Gordon told Bertie of this situation, 
he may be able to tell us where a tele- 


gram would find him. Perhaps he may 
explain this mysterious little note. If 
we can satisfactorily account for his ab- 
sence, we shall have nothing to say about 
Bertie, except to justify him if any one 
else should bring his name into the af- 
fair. And you could do your best to 
help Mr. Nash and Miss Crawford in 
their search.” 

"Yes, but where will you find Mr. 
Gordon ?” 

"He’s a clerk at a factory in Hill 
street. I will go at once.” And he 
hurried off. 

Judith went to the window and look- 
ed after him with a despairing sense of 
loneliness in her heart. The little maid 
asked her if the dinner should be brought 
in, and she answered in a tone that she 
hoped was cheerful. 

Miss Bryant came in with a dish and 
set it on the table. She seldom helped 
in this way, and Judith divined the mo- 
tive. Conscious that she was narrowly 
scanned, she tried to assume a careless 
air, and turned away so that the light 
should not fall on her face. But Lyd- 
ia said nothing. She looked at Judith 
doubtfully, curiously, anxiously : her lips 
parted, but no word came. Judith began 
to eat as if in defiance. 

Lydia hesitated on the threshold, and 
then went away. "Stuck-up thing !” she 
exclaimed as soon as she was safe in the 
passage. " But what has he been doing ? 
Oh, I must and will know !” 

Percival returned before Judith’s time 
had expired, and came into the room 
with a grave face and eyes that would 
not meet hers. 

"Tell me,” she said. 

He turned away and studied a colored 
lithograph on the wall. " It wasn’t true,” 
he said. " Gordon was at the last prac- 
ticing, but he never said a word about 
this organist’s situation. In fact, Bertie 
left before the choir separated.” 

" Some one else might have told him,” 
said Judith. 

There was a pause. " I fear not,” said 
Percival, intently examining a very blue 
church-spire in one corner of the picture. 
"In fact. Miss Lisle, I don’t see how any 
one could. There is no vacancy for an 


*^FOR PERCIVALF 


231 


I organist there — no prospect of any va- 
I cancy. I ascertained that.” 

I Another pause, a much longer one. 
i Percival had turned away from the lith- 
ograph, but now he was looking at a 
i threadbare place in the carpet as thought- 
fully as if he would have to pay for a new 
one. He touched it lightly with his foot, 
and perceived that it would soon wear 
into a hole. 

” I must go back to Miss Crawford,” 
said Judith suddenly. He bent his head 
in silent acquiescence. ‘‘What am I to 
tell her.?” She lifted a book from the 
table, and laid it down again with a 
quivering hand. ‘‘Oh, it is too cruel!” 
she said in a low voice. ‘‘No one could 
expect it of me. My own brother!” 

‘‘ That’s true. No one could expect it.” 

‘‘And yet — ” said Judith. ‘‘ Miss Craw- 
ford — Emmeline. Oh, Mr. Thorne, tell 
me what I ought to do.” 

‘‘ How can I ? I don’t know what to 
say. Why do you attempt to decide 
now ? You may safely leave it till the 
time comes.” 

‘‘Safely ?” 

‘‘Yes. You will not do less than your 
duty.” 

She hesitated, having a woman’s cra- 
- ving for something to which she might 
cling, something definite and settled. 
‘‘It is not certain,” she said at last. 

‘‘No,” he answered. ‘‘Bertie has de- 

I ceived you, but it may be for some fool- 
ish scheme of his own. Me may be guilt- 
less of this : it is only a suspicion still.” 

‘‘Well, I will go,” said Judith again. 
‘‘Oh, if only he had come home!” 
ii ‘‘There is a choir-practice to-night,” 

? said Percival. ‘‘ If all is well he will be 
^ back in time for that. They have no 
j doubt of his coming. Why not leave a 
' note ?” 

She took a sheet of paper and wrote 
on it — 


‘‘My dearest Brother;” (‘‘If he 
comes back he will be best and dear- 
est,” she thought as she wrote. It had 
come to this, that it was necessary to 
justify the loving words ! ‘‘ If he comes 

back, oh how shall I ever atone to him ?”) 
‘‘ Come to me at once at Standon Square. 
Do not lose a moment, I entreat you. 

‘‘Yours always, Judith.” 

She folded and addressed it, and laid 
it where he could not fail to see it as he 
came in. Then, having put on her hat, 
she turned to go. 

‘‘Let me walk with you,” said Perci- 
val. Lydia met them on the stairs and 
cast a look of scornful anger on Miss 
Lisle. ‘‘Much she cares!” the girl mut- 
tered. '"He doesn’t come back, but she 
can go walking about with her young 
man ! Those two won’t miss him much.” 

Thorne saw his companion safely to 
Standon Square, and then went to the 
office. He was late, a thing which had 
never happened before, and, though he 
did his best to make up for lost time, he 
failed signally. His thoughts wandered 
from his work to dwell on Judith Lisle, 
and, if truth be confessed, on the dinner, 
which he had forgotten while with her. 
He was tired and faint. The lines seem- 
ed to swim before his eyes, and he hard- 
ly grasped the sense of what he wrote. 
Once he awoke from a reverie and found 
himself staring blankly at an ink-spot on 
the dingy desk. The young clerk on his 
right was watching him with a look of 
curiosity, in which there was as much 
malevolence as his feeble features could 
express, and when Thorne met his eyes 
he turned away with an unpleasant smile. 
It seemed as if six o’clock would never 
come, but it struck at last, and Percival 
escaped and made his way to Bellevue 
street. 



232 


*^FOR PERCIVALr 


CHAPTER XLVl. 

THE RESULT OF PERCIVAL’S ECONOMY. 



J UDITH’S letter lay on the table still. 

Bertie had not come to claim it, and 
she had not come home. 


Having ascertained these facts, Perci- 
val went to his own room, and, finding 
his tea set ready for him, ate and drank 
hurriedly, hesitating whether he should 
go and meet her. Standing by the win- 
dow he looked out on the darkening 
street. • All vulgarity of detail was lost 
in the softening dusk, and there was 
something almost picturesque in the op- 
posite roof, whose outline was delicately 
drawn on the pale-blue sky. Everything 
was refined, subdued and shadowy in the 
tender light, but Percival, gazing, saw no 
charm in the little twilight picture. Sor- 
row may be soothed by quiet loveliness, 
but perplexities absorb all our faculties, 
and we do not heed the beauty of the 
world, which is simple and unperplexed. 
If it is forced upon our notice, the con- 
trast irritates us : it is almost an imper- 
tinence. Percival would have been an- 
gry had he been called upon to feel the 
poetry which Bertie had found only a 
few days before in the bit of houseleek 


growing on that arid waste of tiles. It is 
true that in that dim light the houseleek 
was only a dusky little knob. 

Should he go and meet Judith ? Should 
he wait for her? What would she do? 
Should he go to St. Sylvester’s ? By the 
time he could reach the church the chor- 
isters would have assembled : would the 
organist be there? While he doubted 
what to do his fingers were in his waist- 
coat pocket, and he incidentally discov- 
ered that he had only a shilling and a 
threepenny-piece in it. He went quick- 
ly to the table and struck a light. Since 
he had enrolled himself as Judith Lisle’s 
true knight, ready to go anywhere or ren- 
der her any service in her need, it would 
be as well to be better provided with the 
sinews of war. He unlocked the little 
writing-case which stood on a side table. 

Percival’s carefulness in money mat- 
ters had helped him very much in his 
poverty. It seemed the most natural 
thing in the world to him that, since 
his income was fixed, his expenditure 
must be made to fit it. He hardly un- 
derstood the difficulties of that numerous 
class of which Bertie was an example — 
men who consider certain items of ex- 
penditure as fixed and unchangeable, 
let their income be what it may. But 
Percival had retained one remembrance 
of his wealthier days, a familiarity with 
money. People who have been stinted 
all their lives are accustomed to handle 
silver and copper, but are anxious about 
gold and frightened at notes or cheques. 
Percival, though he was quite conscious 
of the relative greatness of small sums 
to his narrow means, retained the old 
habit of thinking them small, and never 
bestowed an anxious thought on the lit- 
tle hoard in his desk. As he went to it 
that evening he remembered with sud- 
den pleasure that there was the money 
that had been accumulating for some 
time in readiness for Mrs. Bryant’s return. 
He could borrow from that if need were. 

The money was gone. 


^^FOR PERCIVALr 


233 


Percival stood up and stared vaguely 
round the room. Then, unable to be- 
lieve in his misfortune, he emptied out 
! the contents of the desk upon the table 
I and tossed them over in a hurried search. 

I A carelessly-folded paper caught his eye 
as something unfamiliar. He opened it 
I and read : 

“ Dear Thorne : You were good 
I enough to let me borrow of you once 
when I was in a scrape. I am in a 
worse difficulty now, and, as I have not 
I the chance of asking your leave. I’ve 
ventured to help myself. You shall have 
I it back again in a few days, with an ex- 
j planation of this cool proceeding. 

“H. L.” 

, Percival threw the letter down, and 
walked to the window again. It was 
] clear enough now. Bertie had had no 
need to borrow eight or nine pounds if he 
were only going out for the day to inquire 
about a situation as organist. But if a 
man is running off with a young lady it 
will not do to have an absolutely empty 
I purse. Even though she may be an 
heiress, he cannot very well begin by 
asking her to pay his railway-fare. " It 
I would define the relative positions a lit- 
I tie too clearly,” thought Percival with a 
scornful smile. 

‘‘Will she hope still?” was his next 
, thought. ‘‘It is not utterly impossible, 

I I suppose, that Master Bertie has bolted 
* alone. One couldn’t swear he hadn’t. 

I Bolted he certainly has, but if she will 

j hope I can’t say that I know he has gone 

; with Miss Nash. Though I am sure he 
’ has: how else would he undertake to 
repay me in a few days? Unless that 
! is only a figure of speech.” 

I He suddenly remembered the time 
■ when Bertie left his debt unpaid after 
a similar promise, and he went back to 
his desk with a new anxiety. His talis- 
man, the half-sovereign which was to 
have been treasured to his dying day, 
had shared the fate of the commonplace 
coins which were destined for Mrs. Bry- 
ant and his bootmaker. It was a cruel 
blow, but Percival saw the absurd side 
of his misfortune, and laughed aloud in 
spite of himself. 


” My sentiment hasn’t prospered : it 
might just as well have been a three- 
penny-piece ! Ah, well ! it would be un- 
reasonable to complain,” he reflected, 
“ since Bertie has promised to send my 
souvenir back again. Very thoughtful of 
him ! It will be a little remembrance of 
Emmeline Nash when it comes, and not 
of Judith Lisle : that will be the only dif- 
ference. Quite unimportant, of course. 
Upon my word. Lisle went about it in a 
systematic fashion. Pity he gave his at- 
tention to music : a distinguished burglar 
was lost to society when he turned organ- 
ist.” He took up the paper and glanced 
at it again. ‘‘If I show this to her she 
will pay his debt, as she did last time ; 
and that she never shall do.” He dou- 
bled it up and thrust it in with the rest. 

A shuffling step in the passage, a knock 
at the door, and Emma made her appear- 
ance : ‘‘Miss Lisle has come in, sir.” 

Percival looked up a little astonished, 
but he only thanked her in his quiet voice 
and closed his desk. He turned the key, 
and waited a moment till Emma should 
have gone before he obeyed the sum- 
mons. When, answering Judith’s “Come 
in,” he entered the Lisles’ room, he found 
her standing by the window. She turn- 
ed and looked at him, as if she were not 
quite certain whom to expect. 

“It is I,” he said. “Thank you for 
sending for me.” 

“ Sending for you ? I didn’t send. But 
I am glad you came,” she added. 

She had not sent for him, and Percival 
remembered that he had passed Lydia 
Bryant on his way. The message — 
which, after all, was a mere statement 
of a fact — was hers. He colored angrily 
and stood confused: “You did not send? 
No — I see. I beg your pardon — I mis- 
understood — ” 

“ It makes no difference,” said Judith 
quickly. “ Don’t go : I wanted to tell 
you — ” She paused: “I have not been 
unjust, Mr. Thorne. Mr. Nash has been 
at Standon Square this afternoon. After 
he had my telegram he received a letter 
from Emmeline, and it was as I thought. 
She is with Bertie.” 

“ With Bertie ? And he came here ?” 

“Yes — to see if it was as Emmeline 


234 


^^FOR percival: 


said, that they were married at St. An- I Percival looked blankly at her : ‘‘ Mar- 
drew’s last Tuesday.” 1 ried 1 It isn’t possible, is it ?” 



“Quite possible,” said Judith bitterly. 
“ Standon Square is in St. Andrew’s par- 
ish, as well as Bellevue street. It seems 


that Bertie had only to have the banns 
mumbled over for three Sundays by an 
old clergyman whom nobody hears in a 


HE SAID. “ THANK YOU FOR SENDING FOR ME.” — Page 233, 



^^FOR PERCIVALF 


235 


church where nobody goes. It sounds 
very easy, doesn’t it?” 

Percival stood for a moment speech- 
less while the cool audacity of Bertie’s 
proceeding filtered slowly into his mind. 
" But if any one had gone to St. An- 
drew’s ?” he said at last. 

" That would have ended it, of course. 
I suppose he would have run away with- 
out Emmeline. If I had gone that Sun- 
day when I had arranged to go, for in- 
stance. Yes, that would have been very 
awkward, wouldn’t it, Mr. Thorne ? Only, 
you see, Bertie happened to be ill that 
morning, and I couldn’t leave him. You 
remember you were good enough to go 
to church with us.” 

‘‘I remember,” said Percival with a 
scornful smile as he recalled the devoted 
attention with which he had escorted the 
young organist to St. Sylvester’s. 

” He must have enjoyed that walk, 
I should think,” said Judith, still very 
quietly. Her unopened note was on the 
table, where she had placed it that morn- 
ing. She took it up and tore it into a 
hundred pieces. “You have heard peo- 
ple talk of broken hearts, haven’t you ?” 
she said. 

“Often,” he answered. 

“Well, then, Bertie has broken Miss 
Crawford’s. She said this morning that 
she should never hold up her head again 
if this were true ; and I believe she nev- 
er will.” 

“ Do you mean she will die of it ?” said 
Thorne, aghast. 

“ Not directly, perhaps, but I am sure 
she will die the sooner for it. All her 
pride in her life’s work is gone. She 
feels that she is disgraced. I could not 
bear to see her this afternoon, utterly 
ashamed and humble before that man.” 

“What did he say ?” 

“Some things I won’t tell you.” A 
quick blush dyed her face. “Natural- 
ly, he was angry : he had good reason 
to be. And when he told her she was 
past her work, she moaned, poor thing ! 
while the tears rained down her cheeks, 
and only said, ‘ God forgive me — yes.’ ” 

Percival could but echo her pity. “ Ber- 
tie never thought — ” he began. 

“Never thought? When our trouble 


came,” said Judith, “we had plenty of * 
friends better able to do something for 
us, but, somehow, they didn’t. And when 
there was the talk of Bertie’s coming 
here, and I remembered her and asked 
her if she could help me to a situation 
anywhere in the neighborhood, she wrote 
to me to come to her at once, and she 
would do all she could to help Bertie 
too. I have her letter still. She said 
she longed to know me for my mother’s 
sake, and was sure she would soon love 
me for my own. And this afternoon she 
prayed God she might never see my face 
again !” 

“She thinks you are to blame, then ?” 
said Thorne. 

“Yes; and am I not?” was the quick 
reply. “ Ought I not to have known Ber- 
tie better ? And I did know him : that is 
the worst of it. I did not expect this, and 
yet I ought to have been on my guard. 
He has been my one study from first to 
last. From the time that he was a little 
boy — the bonniest little boy that ever 
was! — my life has been all Bertie. I 
remember him, with long curls hanging 
down his back and his gray eyes open- 
ed wide, when he stood on tiptoe at the 
piano and touched the little tunes that he 
had heard, and looked over his shoulder 
at me and laughed for pleasure in his 
music. I can see his little baby-fingers 
— the little soft fingers I used to kiss — 
on the keys now. — Oh, Bertie, why didn’t 
you die then ?” 

She stopped as if checked by a sudden 
thought, and looked so quickly up at Per- 
cival that she caught an answer in his 
eyes that he would never have uttered. 

“Ah, yes, he would have been the 
same,” she said. “He was the same 
then : I know it. They used to praise 
me, when I was a child, for giving every- 
thing up to Bertie. As if he were not my 
happiness I And it has been so always. 
And now I have sacrificed Miss Craw- 
ford to Bertie — my dear old friend, my 
mother’s friend, who is worth ten times 
as much as Bertie ever was or ever will 
be I Is not this a fine ending of all ?” 

Percival broke the silence after a mo- 
ment’s pause. "Is it an ending of all ?” 
he said. “ Bertie has been very wrong. 


236 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


• but it has been partly thoughtlessness. 
He is very young, and if he should do 
well hereafter may there not even yet 
be a future to which you may look for- 
ward? As for the world, it is not dis- 
posed to look on a runaway match of 
this sort as a crime.” 

She turned her eyes full upon him, and 
he stopped. 

‘‘Oh, the world!” she said. ‘‘The world 
will consider it a sort of young Lochinvar 
affair, no doubt. But how much of the 
young Lochinvar do you think there is 
about Bertie, Mr. Thorne ? You have 
heard him speak of Emmeline Nash 
sometimes — not as often nor as freely 
as he has spoken to me; still, you have 
heard him. And judging from that, do 
you believe he is in love with her?” 

‘‘Well — no,” said Thorne reluctantly. 
‘‘Hardly that.” 

‘‘A thousand times no 1 If by any pos- 
sibility he had loved her, foolishly, mad- 
ly, with a passion that blinded him to 
the cruel wrong he was doing, it would 
all have been different. I should have 
blamed him, but in spite of Miss Craw- 
ford I should have forgiven him ; I should 
have had hope ; he would have been my 
Bertie still ; I should not have despised 
him. But this is cold and base and hor- 
rible : he has simply sold himself for Em- 
meline’s money — sold himself, his smiles 
and his pretty speeches and his hand- 
some face. And now it is all over.” 

As Judith spoke Percival understood 
for the first time what a woman’s voice 
could be. The girl’s soul was filled and 
shaken with passion. She did not cry 
aloud nor rant, but evei*y accent thrilled 
through him from head to foot. And it 
seemed to him that she needed no words 
— that, had she been speaking in an un- 
known tongue, the very intonation, the 
mere sound, the vibration of her voice, 
would have told him of her wounded 
heart, her despair, her unavailing sor- 
row, her bitter shame, so eloquent it 
was. He did not think all this, but in 
a passing moment felt it. “I fear it is 
all too true,” he said. ‘‘ I don’t know 
what to say nor how to help you. Your 
brother — ” 

” Don’t call him that : he is no brother 


of mine. Ah yes, God help me, he is my 
brother ; and I think we Lisles bring sor- 
row to all who are good to us. We have 
to you, have we not ? Don’t stay here, 
Mr. Thorne : don’t try to help me. Re- 
member that I am of the same blood as 
my father, who robbed you — as Bertie, 
who has been so base.” 

‘‘And if Judas himself were your broth- 
er, what then ?” Percival demanded. His 
voice, in its masculine vigor and fulness, 
broke forth suddenly, like a strong crea- 
ture held till then in a leash. ‘‘ And as 
for the money, what of that ? I am glad 
it is gone, or I should not have been here 
to-day.” 

No, he would not have needed to turn 
clerk and earn his living. He would not 
have gone to Brackenhill to confess his 
poverty. He might never have discover- 
ed anything. Most likely he would long 
since have been Sissy’s husband. Sissy 
seemed far away now. He had loved 
her — yes. Oh, poor little Sissy, who had 
clung to him I But what were these new 
feelings that thronged his heart as he 
looked at Judith Lisle ? He stopped ab- 
ruptly. What had he said ? 

Judith too looked at him, and grew 
suddenly calm and still. ‘‘You are very 
good,” she said. ” I should have been 
very lonely to-day if I had not had a 
friend. It has been a comfort to speak 
out what I felt, though I’m afraid I’ve 
talked foolishly.” 

‘‘One can’t weigh all one’s words,” 
said Percival. 

“No,” she answered; ‘‘and I know you 
will not remember my folly.” 

“At any rate, I will not forget that you 
have trusted me. You are tired,” he said 
gently : “ you ought to rest. There is 
nothing to be done to-night.” 

“Nothing,” she answered hopelessly. 

“And to-morrow, if there is anything 
that I can do, you will send for me, will 
you not ?” 

She smiled. 

“ Promise me that,” he urged in a tone 
of authority. “You will?” 

“Yes, I promise.” 

Sometimes, when clouds roll up, black 
with thunder and rain, to overshadow the 
heavens and to deluge the earth, between 


^*FOR PERCIVALr 


237 


their masses you may catch a moment- 
ary gleam of blue, faint and infinitely 
far away, deep, untroubled, most beau- 
tiful. Judith had caught such a glimpse 
that evening as she bade Percival good- 
night. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

CONSEQUENCES. 

The story of the elopement was in all 
the local papers, which seemed for once 
to be printed on Judith Lisle’s heart. It 
was the latest and most exciting topic 
of conversation in the neighborhood of 
Standon Square and St. Sylvester’s, and 
was made doubly interesting by the utter 
collapse of Mr. Clifton’s Easter services, 
which were to have been something very 
remarkable indeed. Every one recol- 
lected the young organist who was so 
handsome and who played so divinely. 
People forgot that his father had failed 
very disgracefully, and only remember- 
ed that Bertie had once been in a much 
better position. There was a sort of gen- 
eral impression that he was an aristocratic 
young hero who lived in lofty poverty, 
and was a genius into the bargain. No 
one was very precise about it, but Bee- 
thoven and Mendelssohn and all those 
people were likely to find themselves 
eclipsed some fine morning. Emmeline 
Nash of course became a heroine to 
match, vaguely sketched as slim, tall 
and fair. She had stayed on at Miss 
Crawford’s at an age when a girl’s edu- 
cation is generally supposed to be finish- 
ed, and she had not always gone home 
for the holidays. These facts were of 
course the germs of a romance. There 
was a quarrel with her father, who wish- 
ed her to marry some one. No one knew 
who the some one might be, but as he 
was only a shadowy figure in the back- 
ground, his name was of no importance. 
Emmeline and her music -master had 
fallen in love at first sight; and when 
the moment came for the girl to return 
home, to be persecuted by her father’s 
threats and by the attentions of the shad- 
owy lover, her heart had failed her and 
she had consented to fly with the young 


musician. As Judith had said, it was a 
young Lochinvar romance — a boy-and- 
girl attachment. No one seemed to think 
much the worse of Bertie. Hardly any 
one called him a fortune-hunter, for Em- 
meline’s money seemed trivial compared 
with the wealth that he was supposed to 
have once possessed. And no one thought 
anything at all of Judith herself or of Miss 
Crawford. 

It would soon be over and forgotten, 
but Judith suffered acutely while it lasted. 
Perhaps it was well that she was forced 
to think about her own prospects, which 
were none of the brightest. 

“Shall you go to Rookleigh?’’ Perci- 
val asked her a couple of days later. 

She shook her head: “No: I’m too 
proud, I suppose, or too miserable : I 
can’t have my failure here talked over. 
Aunt Lisle’s conversation is full of sharp 
little pin-pricks, which are all very well 
when they don’t go straight into one’s 
heart.’’ 

He saw her lip quiver as she turned 
her face away. “Where will you go, 
then ?’’ he asked with gentle persistence. 
It was partly on his own account, for he 
feared that a blow was in store for him, 
and he wanted to know the worst. 

“ I shall not go anywhere. I shall not 
leave Brenthill.’’ 

The blood seemed to rush strongly to 
his heart : his veins were full of warm 
life. She would not leave Brenthill ! 

“ I will stay, at any rate, while Miss 
Crawford remains here. She will not 
speak to me, she has forbidden me to 
attempt to see her, but I cannot go away 
and leave her here alone. I may not be 
of any use — I do not suppose I shall be 
— but while she is here I will not go.’’ 

“ But if she left ?’’ 

“Still, I would not leave Brenthill if I 
could get any work to do. I feel as if I 
must stay here, if only to show that I have 
not gone away with Bertie to live on Em- 
meline’s money. Poor Emmeline ! And 
when he used to talk of my not working 
any more, and he would provide for me, 
I thought he meant that he would make 
a fortune with his opera. What a fool I 
was !’’ 

“ It was a folly to be proud of.’’ 


238 


FOR PERCIVALF 


He was rewarded with a faint smile, 
but the delicate curve of the girl’s lips 
relaxed into sadness all too soon. 

The table at her side was strewn with 
sheets of roughly-blotted music, mixed 
with others daintily neat, which Judith 
herself had copied. “His opera,’’ she 
repeated, laying the leaves in order. 
“ Emmeline will be promoted to the of- 
fice of critic and admirer now, I suppose. 
But I think the admiration will be too in- 
discriminate even for Bertie. Poor Em- 
meline !’’ 

"What are you going to do with all 
these?’’ said Thorne, laying his hand 
on the papers. 

“I am putting them together to send 
to him. I had a letter this morning, so 
I know his address now. He seems very 
hopeful, as usual, and thinks her father 
will forgive them before long.’’ 

"And do you think there is a chance 
of it ?’’ 

“ No, I don’t. Bertie did not hear 
what Mr. Nash said that afternoon to 
Miss Crawford and to me,’’ she replied ; 
and once again the color rushed to her 
face at the remembrance. 

"Miss Lisle,’’ said Percival suddenly, 
" I am ready to make every allowance 
for Mr. Nash, but if — ’’ 

"Oh, it was nothing. He was angry, 
as he had reason to be : that was all. 
And you see I am not used to angry 
men.’’ 

"I should hope not. I wish I had 
been there.’’ 

"And I don’t,’’ said Judith softly. "I 
think you might not have been very 
patient, and I felt that one ought to be 
patient for Miss Crawford’s sake. Be- 
sides, if you had been there I could not 
have — Bertie writes in capital spirits,” 
she continued with a sudden change of 
tone. "He wants me to go and join 
them. He is just the same as ever, 
only rather proud of himself.” 

"Proud of himself! In Heaven’s 
name, why ?” 

"Why, he is only two - and - twenty, 
and has secured a comfortable income 
for the rest of his life by his own exer- 
tions. Naturally, he is proud of him- 
self.” Percival had learned now that 


Judith never suffered more keenly than 
when she spoke of Bertie in a jesting 
tone, and it pained him for her sake. 
He looked sorrowfully at her. "Mr. 
Thorne,” she went on, "he does not 
even suspect that what he has done is 
anything but praiseworthy and rather 
clever. He does not so much as men- 
tion Miss Crawford. And I am haunt- 
ed by a feeling that we have somehow 
wronged my mother by wronging her 
old friend.” 

Percival did not tell her that he too 
had had a letter from Bertie. It was in 
his pocket as he stood there, and when 
he went away he took it out and read it 
again. 

Bertie was as light-hearted as she had 
said. He enclosed an order for the money 
taken from the desk, and hoped Thorne 
had not wanted it ; or, if he had been put 
to any inconvenience, he must forgive 
him this once, as he. Lisle, did not sup- 
pose he should ever run away in that 
style again. 

" I think the old man will come round 
without much fuss,” Bertie went on. 
" We have been very penitent — the waste 
of note-paper before we could get our 
feelings properly expressed was some- 
thing frightful ; but the money was well 
laid out, for we have heard from him 
again, and there is a perceptible soften- 
ing in the tone of his letter. Emmeline 
assures me that he is passionately fond 
of music, and reminds me how anxious 
he was that she should learn to play. 
The reasoning does not exactly convince 
me, but if the old fellow does but imag- 
ine that he has a passion for music I will 
conquer him through that. And if the 
worst comes to the worst, and he is as 
stony-hearted as one of his own fossils, 
we have only to manage for this year, 
and we must come into our money when 
Emmeline is twenty-one. But I have no 
fear. He will relent, and we shall be 
comfortably settled under the paternal 
roof long before Christmas. 

"What did old Clifton say and do 
when he found I had bolted ? And how 
did the Easter services go off? Those 
blessed Easter services that he was in 
such a state of mind about! Was he 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


239 


very savage ? Send me as graphic a 
description as you can. 

“ Excuse a smudge, but Emmeline and 
I are bound to do a good deal of hug- 
ging and kissing just now — a honeymoon 
after an elopement is something remark- 
ably sweet, as you may suppose — and 
her sleeve brushed the wet ink. This 
particular embrace was on the occasion 
of her departure to put on her things. 
We are going out. 

"Don’t they say that married women 
always give up their accomplishments ? 
Emmeline is a married woman, there- 
fore Emmeline will give up her music. 
How soon do you suppose she will 
begin ?’’ 

Half a page more of Bertie’s random 
scribble brought him to a conclusion, 
but it was not a final one, for he had 
added a couple of lines : " P. S. Per- 
suade J. to shake herself free of Brent- 
hill as soon as possible : there can be no 
need for her to work now, thank God! 
You know it has always been my day- 
dream and hope to provide for her. You 
must come and see us too. Come soon, 
before we go to my father-in-law’s. Good- 
bye : we are off. — P. S. No. 2. No, we are 
not. E. has forgotten her parasol, and is 
gone for it. How is Lydia ? What did 
she say when she heard the news ? I 
suppose by this time everybody knows 
it." 

Percival’s lip curved with scorn and 
disgust as he refolded the letter, in which 
Emmeline, Judith and Lydia jostled each 
other as they might have done in a bad 
dream. Then he looked up, being sud- 
denly aware of eyes that were fixed upon 
him. 

Miss Bryant stood in the doorway: 
"You’ve heard from him, Mr. Thorne?” 

Percival did not choose to answer as 
if he were in Miss Bryant’s secrets and 
knew as a matter of course that "him" 
meant Lisle. Neither did he choose to 
say that he did not know who was in- 
tended by the energetic pronoun. He 
looked back at Lydia politely and in- 
quiringly, as if he awaited further infor- 
mation before he could be expected to 
reply. 

"Oh, you know,” said Lydia scorn- 


fully. "You have heard from Mr. Ber- 
tie Lisle?” 

"Yes,” Percival acquiesced gravely. 

"Well ?” 

"Well — what. Miss Bryant?” 

" What does he say ?” Lydia demand- 
ed ; and when Thorne arched his brows, 
"Oh, you needn’t look as if you thought 
it wasn’t my business. I’ve a right to 
ask after him, at any rate, for old ac- 
quaintance’ sake.” 

"I’m sorry to hear you take so much 
interest in him,” he rejoined. 

"Why? You may keep your sorrow 
for your own affairs: I’ll manage mine. 
I can take very good care of myself, I 
assure you, and I won’t trouble you to 
be sorry for me,” said Lydia shortly. I 
do not think she had ever spoken to a 
young man before and been unconscious 
that it was a young man to whom she 
spoke. But she was utterly heedless of 
Percival as she questioned him, and he 
perceived it, and preferred this angry 
mood. "Can’t you tell me anything 
about him ?” said the girl. " Is he well 
— happy ?” 

" He writes in the best of spirits.” 

Lydia advanced a step or two : "And 
is it all true what they are saying ? He 
has married this young lady ?” 

"Yes, he has married her.” 

"And do you suppose he cares for 
her?” said Lydia slowly. 

Thorne’s brows went up again : "Real- 
ly, Miss Bryant — ” 

" Because if he does, he has told lies 
enough : that’s all.” 

("And he isn’t a miracle of honor if 
he doesn’t,” said Percival.) 

"But that’s quite likely,” Lydia went 
on, unheeding. " I knew all the time that 
he didn’t mean any good. He thought 
I believed him, but I didn’t — not more 
than half, anyhow. But when he went 
away I didn’t guess it was for this.” 

"You knew he was going?” Thorne 
said. 

Lydia half smiled, in conscious supe- 
riority. 

"You don’t seem to have served your- 
self particularly well by keeping his se- 
crets. You are deceived at last, like the 
rest.” 


24C 


**FOR PERCIVALr 


‘‘Well, if I haven’t served myself I’ve 
served him,” said Lydia. ‘‘And I don’t 
know but what I am glad of it. He 
wasn’t as stuck-up and proud as some 
people. One likes to be looked at and 
spoken to as if one wasn’t dirt under 
people’s feet. And, after all, I don’t see 
that there’s any harm done.” There 
were red rims to Lydia’s eyes, telling 
of tears which must surely have been 
too persistent to pass for tears of joy 
at the tidings of Bertie’s elopement. 
‘‘I suppose a marriage like that is all 
right?” she asked with a quick glance. 

‘‘Of course — no doubt of it,” said Per- 
cival very shortly. He had pitied her a 
moment earlier. 

‘‘Ah ! I supposed so. But things ain’t 
always all right when people run away. 
And the money’s all right too, is it ?” 

‘‘ Some of it, at any rate,” said Thorne, 
taking a book from the table. 

‘‘Wouldn’t he be sure to take care of 
that ! And there’s more to come if the 
father likes, isn’t there ? He’ll get that 
too : see if he doesn’t.” 

‘‘ It is to be hoped he will — for Mrs. 
Lisle’s sake. Otherwise, I cannot say I 
care to discuss his prospects.” 

“Well,” said Lydia after a pause, dur- 
ing which she turned a ring slowly on 
her finger — “well. I’ll wish him all the 
happiness he deserves.” 

Percival’s lip curved a little: “Miss 
Bryant, are you absolutely pitiless ?” 

Lydia’s expression was rather blank. 
“What do you mean ? No, I ain’t,” she 
said. “ I’ve nothing more to do with him. 
He hasn’t done me any harm, and I won’t 
wish him any. At least, only a little.” 
With which small ebullition of feminine 
tenderness and spite she fled hurriedly 
down stairs to shed a few more tears, 
and left Thorne to write his letter to 
Lisle. It was brief, and none the sweeter 
for that recent interview. 

“ I return the money,” Percival wrote, 
“which you say was so useful to you. I 
know that what you have sent me is not 
yours, but your wife’s, and I cannot con- 
scientiously say that I think Mrs. Her- 
bert Lisle is indebted to me in any way. 

“ I have not delivered your message to 
your sister. I have no wish to insult her 


in her trouble, and I know she would 
feel such persuasion a cruel insult, as 
indeed I think it would be.” 

Judith at the same time was writing : 

“From this time our paths must lie 
apart. I will never touch a penny of 
your wife’s money. Do not dare to offer 
me a share of it again. It seems to me 
that all the shame and sorrow is mine, 
and you have only the prosperity. Not 
for the whole world would I change bur 
dens with you. 

“Miss Crawford is going to give up 
her school at once. She will not see or 
speak to me, for she suspects me of hav- 
ing been your accomplice. And I can- 
not help blaming myself that I trusted 
you so foolishly. But I could not have 
believed that you would have been false 
to her — our one friend, our mother’s 
friend. Is it possible that, you do not 
see that every one under her roof should 
have been sacred to you ? But what is 
the use of saying anything now? 

“ I don’t know, after this, how to ap- 
peal to you, and I don't want any prom- 
ises; but if you feel any regret for the 
pain you have caused, and if you really 
wish to do anything for me, I entreat 
you to be good to Emmeline. It is the 
only favor I will ever ask of you. She 
is young and weak, poor girl ! and she 
has trusted you utterly. In God’s name, 
do not repay her trust as you have re- 
paid Miss Crawford’s and mine !” 

Bertie’s incredulous amazement was 
visible in every line of his answer to 
Percival ; 

“Are you both cracked — you and Ju- 
dith — or am I dreaming ? I have read 
your letters a score of times, and I think 
I understand them less than I did. Here 
are sweet bells jangled out of tune with 
a vengeance, and Heaven only knows 
what all the row is about: I don’t. 

“ Do you suppose a man never made 
a runaway match before? And how 
could I do otherwise than as I did? 
Was I to stop and consult all the old 
women in the parish about it — ask Miss 
Crawford’s blessing, and get my sister to 
look out my train for me and pack my 
portmanteau ? Can’t you see that I was 
obliged to deceive you a Iktle ? 


“/’0/v’ P^RCIVALr 


241 


“And what is amiss with the marriage 
; itself? It i^ true that just now Emme- 
' line has the money and I have none, but 
do you suppose I am going to remain in 
obscurity all my life ? A few years hence 
' you shall own that it was not at all a 
bad match for her. Old Nash is nobody, 
though he is clever enough in his own 
way. His father was a tailor, and made 
, a good lot of money so. By the way, he 
is certainly coming round (Mr. Nash, I 
mean, not my grandfather -in -law the 
, tailor: he is dead), and if he doesn’t ob- 
, ject, why should anybody else ? 

“If I have done Miss Crawford any 
harm. I’m very sorry of course. Can’t 
I help her in some way ?’’ 

The reply to Judith’s letter came in 
a feeble, girlish handwriting. It began : 
“Herbert tells me you are angry with 
him because he deceived you about our 
marriage,” and it ended, “Your affec- 
tionate sister, Emmeline Lisle,” The 
writer was evidently in the seventh heav- 
: en of bliss. Her letter was an attempt at 
persuading Judith, but it was sprinkled 
all over with fond allusions to Bertie — 
“My dear, dear husband,” “my own 
dearest,” “ darlingest Herbert,” “my 
I own love ;” and in one place there was 
an unnecessary little parenthesis: “He 
I is such a dear, you know !” It was sil- 
! ly enough to be maddening, but it was 
' wonderfully happy, with the writer’s ado- 
' ration of Bertie and her serene certain-, 
ty that Bertie adored her. Clearly, no 
shadow of doubt had crossed Emme- 
line’s mind. There was not such an- 
other man in all the world as Herbert 
Lisle, and she was his ideal woman. 
Every other girl must envy her the prize 
she had won. Even his sister was jeal- 
ous and angry when she found that she 
held only the second place in his affec- 
tions. Emmeline, elated by her proud 
position, reasoned sweetly with the un- 
reasonable Judith, who read the foolish 
scribble with mingled irritation, laugh- 
ter, contempt, and almost tears. At the 
end were three lines in another hand: 
“Judith, you 7nust let me send you some 
money. If you don’t understand why 
yet, you will soon. You really must.” 

“ Does he think I can’t get a situation 
16 


without his help ?” Judith wondered. She 
smiled, for she had found one. Mrs. Bar- 
ton had come to her assistance — Mrs. 
Barton, whose stupid little daughter Ju- 
dith was still patiently teaching. She 
understood the girl’s wish to remain at 
Brenthill : she believed in her and sym- 
pathized with her, and exerted herself in 
her behalf. She brought her the offer of a 
situation in a school for little boys, where’ 
she would live in the house and have 
a small salary. “ It won’t be like Miss 
Crawford’s, you know,” the good lady 
said. 

“ It will do, whatever it is,” Judith an- 
swered. 

“ It is a school of quite a different class. 
Miss Macgregor is a woman who drives 
hard bargains. She will overwork you. 
I’m afraid: I only hope she won’t un- 
derfeed you. You will certainly be un- 
derpaid. She takes advantage of the 
cause of your leaving Standon Square, 
and of the fact that you can’t ask Miss 
Crawford for testimonials. She is de- 
lighted at the idea of getting a really 
good teacher for next to nothing.” 

“Still, it is in Brenthill,” said Judith, 
“and that is the great thing. Thank 
you very much, Mrs. Barton. I will 
take it.” 

“ She will reopen school in about ten 
days.” 

"That will suit me very well, won’t it ? 
I must pack up here, and settle every- 
thing.” And Judith cast a desolate 
glance round the room where she had 
come with such happy hopes to begin 
a new life with Bertie. 

Mrs. Barton’s eyes were fixed on her. 
“ I am half inclined now to wish I hadn’t 
said anything about Miss Macgregor at 
all,” she remarked. 

“ Why ? If you only knew how grate- 
ful I am !” 

“That’s just it. Grateful! And that 
schoolmistress will work you to death : 

I know she will.” 

“She must take a little time about it,” 
said the girl with a smile. “ Perhaps be- 
fore she has quite finished I may hear 
of something else. What I want is some- 
thing to enable me to stay at Brenthill, 
and this will answer the purpose.” 


242 


^^FOR FFRC/FALF 


Mrs. Barton stood up to go. “I’ve 
made one stipulation,” she said. “Miss 
Macgregor will let you come to us every 
Wednesday afternoon to give Janie her 
lesson.” 

“Oh, how good you are!” Judith ex- 
claimed. “I thought all that must be 
over.” 

“I wish I could have you altogether,” 
Mrs. Barton said. “ It would be charm- 
ing for Janie, and for me too. But, un- 
fortunately, that can’t be.” She had her 
hand on the handle of the half-open door. 
As she spoke there was a quick step on 
the stairs, and Percival Thorne went by. 
A slanting light from the window in the 
passage fell on his sombre, olive-tinted 
face with a curiously picturesque effect. 
An artist might have painted him, emerg- 
ing thus from the dusky shadows. He 
carried himself with a defiant pride — 
was he not Judith’s friend and cham- 
pion ? — and bowed, with a glance that 
was at once eager and earnest, when he 
caught sight of the young girl behind her 
friend’s substantial figure. His strongly- 
marked courtesy was so evidently natural 
that it could not strike any one as an ex- 
aggeration of ordinary manners, but ra- 
ther as the perfection of some other man- 
ners, no matter whether those of a nation 
or a time, or only his own. Mrs. Barton 
was startled and interested by the sudden 
apparition. The good lady was romantic 
in her tastes, and this was like a glimpse 
of a living novel. “Who was that ?” she 
asked hurriedly. 

“Mr. Thorne. He lodges here,” said 
Judith. 

“A friend of your brother’s ?” 

“He was very good to my brother.” 

“Ah!” said Mrs. Barton. “My dear, 
he is very handsome.” 

Judith smiled. 

“He is!” exclaimed her friend. “Don’t 
say he isn’t, for I sha’n’t believe you ntean 
it. He is verj/ handsome — like a Span- 
iard, like a cavalier, like some one in a 
tragedy. Now, isn’t he?” 

Mrs. Barton’s romantic feelings found 
no outlet in her daily round of household 
duties. Mr. Barton was good, but com- 
monplace ; so was Janie ; and Mrs. Bar- 
ton was quite conscious that there was 


nothing poetical or striking in her own 
appearance. But Miss Lisle, with her 
“great, grave griefful air,” was fit to take 
a leading part in poem or drama, and 
here was a man worthy to play hero 
passing her on the staircase of a dingy 
lodging-house ! Mrs. Barton built up a 
romance in a moment, and was quite 
impatient to bid Judith farewell, that she 
might work out the details as she walked 
along the street. 

The unconscious hero of her romance 
was divided between pleasure and regret 
when he heard of the treaty concluded 
with Miss Macgregor. It was much that 
Judith could remain at Brenthill, but one 
day, on his way to dinner, he went and 
looked at the outside of the house which 
was to be her home, and its aspect did 
not please him. It stood in a gloomy 
street : it was prim, straight, narrow, and 
altogether hideous. A tiny bit of arid 
garden in front gave it a prudish air of 
withdrawing from the life and traffic of 
the thoroughfare. The door opened as 
Percival looked, and a woman came out, 
frigid, thin -lipped and sandy - haired. 
She paused on the step and gave an 
order to the servant : evidently she was 
Miss Macgregor. Percival’s heart died 
within him. “That harpy !” he said un- 
der his breath. The door closed behind 
her, and there was a prison-like sound 
of making fast within. The young man 
turned and walked away, oppressed by 
a sense of gray dreariness. “Will she 
be able to breathe in that jail ?” he won- 
dered to himself. “ Bellevue street is a 
miserable hole, but at least one is free 
there.” He prolonged his walk a little, 
and went through Standon Square. It 
was bright and pleasant in the spring 
sunshine, and the trees in the garden 
had little leaves on every twig. A man 
was painting the railings of Montague 
House, and another was putting a brass 
plate on the door. There was a new 
name on it ; Miss Crawford’s reign was 
over for ever. 

Percival counted the days that still re- 
mained before Judith’s bondage would 
begin and Bellevue street be desolate 
as of old. Yet, though he prized every 
hour, they were miserable days. Lydia 


»FOR PERCIVAir 


243 


Bryant haunted him — not with her for- 
mer airs and graces, but with malicious 
hints in her speech and little traps set 
for Miss Lisle and himself. She would 
gladly have found an occasion for slan- 
der, and Percival read her hate of Judith 
in the cunning eyes which watched them 
both. He felt that he had already been 
unwary^, and his blood ran cold as he 
thought of possible gossip, and the 
manner in which Lydia’s insinuations 
would be made. Precious as those few 
days were, he longed for the end. He 
thought more than once of leaving Belle- 
vue street, but such a flight was impos- 
sible. He was chained there by want 
of money. He could not pay his debt 
to Mrs. Bryant for weeks, and he could 
not leave while it was unpaid. Day af- 
ter day he withdrew himself more, and 
grew almost cold in his reserve, hoping 
to escape from Lydia. One morning, as 
they passed on the stairs, he looked back 
and caught a glance from Judith never 
intended to meet his eye — a sad and 
wondering glance — which made his heart 
ache, even while filling it with the cer- 
tainty that he was needed. He answer- 
ed only with another glance. It seemed 
to him to convey nothing of what he felt, 
but nevertheless it woke a light in the 
girl’s eyes. Moved by a quick impulse, 
Percival looked up, and following his ex- 
ample, Judith lifted her head and saw 
Miss Bryant leaning over the banisters 
and watching them with a curiosity which 
changed to an unpleasant smile when she 
found herself observed. It was a revela- 
tion to Judith. She fled into her room, 
flushing hotly with indignation against 
Lydia for her spitefully suggestive watch- 
fulness ; with shame for herself that Per- 
cival’s sense of her danger should have 
been keener than her own ; and with 
generous pride and confidence in him. 
Thus to have been guarded might have 
been an intolerable humiliation, but Ju- 
dith found some sweetness even in the 
sting. It was something new to her to 
be cared for and shielded; and while 
she resolved to be more careful in fu- 
ture, her dominant feeling was of disgust 
at the curiosity which could so misunder- 
stand the truest and purest of friendships. 


'"He understands me, at any rate,” said 
poor Judith to herself, painfully conscious 
of her glowing cheeks. "He understands 
me : he will not think ill of me, but he 
shall never have to fear for me again.” 
It might be questioned whether Perci- 
val did altogether understand her. If 
he did, he was more enlightened than 
Judith herself. 

After that day she shrank from Perci- 
val, and they hardly saw each other till 
she left. She knew his hours of going 
and coming, and was careful to remain 
in her room, though it might be that the 
knowledge drew her to the window that 
looked into Bellevue street. As for Per- 
cival, though he never sought her, it 
seemed to him that his sense of hearing 
was quickened. Judith’s footstep on the 
stairs was always distinct to him, and the 
tone of her voice if she spoke to Miss 
Bryant or Emma was noted and remem- 
bered. It is true that this strained anx- 
iety sometimes made him an involuntary 
listener to gossip or household arrange- 
ments in which Miss Lisle took no active 
part. One day there was a hurried con- 
versation just outside his door. 

‘‘Did you give it to her?” said Lydia’s 
voice. 

Emma replied, “Yes’m.” 

‘‘Open? Just as it came? Just as I 
gave it to you ?” 

Emma again replied, ‘‘Yes’m.” 

‘‘ Did she look surprised ?” 

‘‘She gave a little jump, miss,” said 
Emma deliberately, as if weighing hei 
words, ‘‘and she looked at it back and 
front.” 

‘‘ Well, what then ? Go on.” 

‘‘ Oh ! then she laid it down and said 
it was quite right, and she’d see about it.” 

Lydia laughed. ‘‘ I think there’ll be 
some more — ” she said. Percival threw 
the tongs into the fender, and the dia- 
logue came to an abrupt termination. 
‘‘She” who gave a little jump was Miss 
Lisle, of course. But there would be 
some more — What ? The young man 
revolved the matter gloomily in his mind 
as he paced to anti fro within the narrow 
limits of his room. A natural impulse 
had caused him to interrupt Lydia’s tri- 
umphant speech, which he knew was not 


244 


<^FOR PERCIVALF 


intended for his ears, but her laugh rang 
in the air and mocked him. What was 
the torture that she had devised and whose 
effects she so curiously analyzed ? There 
would be more — What ? 

He thought of it that night, he thought 
of it the next morning, and still he could 
not solve the mystery. But as he came 
from the office in the middle of the day he 
passed his bootmaker’s, and the worthy 
man, who was holding the door open for 
a customer to go out, stopped him with 
an apology. Percival’s heart beat fast : 
never before had he stood face to face 
with a tradesman and felt that he could 
not pay him what he owed. His bill had 
not yet been sent in, and the man had 
never shown any inclination to hurry 
him, but he was evidently going to ask 
for his money now. Percival controlled 
his face with an effort, prepared for the 
humiliating confession of his poverty,- 
and found that Mr. Robinson — with pro- 
fuse excuses for the trouble he was giv- 
ing — was begging to be told Mr. Lisle’s 
address. 

“Mr. Lisle’s address?” Thorne re- 
peated the words, but as he did so the 
matter suddenly became clear to him, 
and he went on easily : “ Oh, I ought to 
have told you that Mr. Lisle’s account 
was to be sent to me. If you have it 
there. I’ll take it.” 

Mr. Robinson fetched it with more 
apologies. He was impressed by the 
lofty carelessness with which the young 
man thrust the paper into his pocket, and 
as Thorne went down the street the little 
bootmaker looked after him with consid- 
erable admiration : "Any one can see 
he’s quite the gentleman, and so was 
the other. This one’ll make his way too, 
see if he doesn’t!” Mr. Robinson im- 
parted these opinions to Mrs. Robinson 
over their dinner, and was informed in 
return that he wasn’t a prophet, so he 
needn’t think it, and the young men 
who gave themselves airs and wore 
smart clothes weren’t the ones to get 
on in the world; and Mrs. Robinson 
had no patience with such nonsense. 

Meanwhile, Percival had gone home 
with his riddle answered. More — What? 
More unsuspected debts, more bills of 


Bertie’s to be sent in to the poor girl 
who had been so happy in the thought ‘ 
that, although their income was small, 
at least they owed nothing. Percival’s ; 
heart ached as he pictured Judith’s start 
of surprise when Emma carried in the 
open paper, her brave smile, her hurried ' 
assurance that it was all right, and Lydia ^ 
laughing outside at the thought of more 
to come. "She’ll pay them all,” said .i 
Percival to himself. " She won’t take a 
farthing of that girl’s money. She’ll die 
sooner than not pay them, but I incline < 
to think she won’t pay this one.” His ■ 
mind was made up long before he 
reached Bellevue street. If by any sac- 
rifice of pride or comfort he could keep \ 
the privilege of helping Judith altogether 
to himself, he would do so. If that were 
impossible he would get the money from 
Godfrey Hammond. But he felt doubt- j 
ful whether he should like Godfrey Ham- 
mond quite as well when he should have 
asked and received this service at his 
hands. " I ought to like him all the bet- 
ter if he helped her when I couldn’t 
manage it. It would be abominably 
unjust if I didn’t. In fact, I fnnst like 
him all the better for it : it stands to 
reason I must. I’ll be shot if I should,' 
though I and I don’t much think I could 
ever forgive him.” 

Percival found that the debt was a 
small one, and calculated that by a mir- 
acle of economy he might pay it out of 
his salary at the end of the week. Con- ' 
sequently, he dined out two or three •, 
days : at least he did not dine at home ; ’ j 

but his dissipation did not seem to agree ! 
with him, for he looked white and tired. ' 
Luckily, he had not to pay for his lodg- j 
ings till Mrs. Bryant came back, and he 
sincerely hoped that the good lady would 
be happy with her sister, Mrs. Smith, till 
his finances were in better order. When 
he got his money he lost no time in set- 
tling Mr. Robinson’s little account, and 
was fortunate enough to intercept an- 
other, about which Mr. Brett the tailor 
was growing seriously uneasy. He would 
not for the world have parted with the 
precious document, but he began to won- ' 
der how he should extricate himself from 
his growing embarrassments. Lydia- 


^^FOR percival: 


X 


245 


half suspicious, half laughing — made 
a remark about his continual absence 
from home. “You are getting to be 
very gay, ain’t you, Mr. Thorne ?’’ she 
said ; and she pulled her curl with her 
old liveliness, and watched him while 
she spoke. 

“Well, rather so: it does seem like 
it,” he allowed. 

“ I think you’ll be getting too fine for 
Bellevue street,’’ said the girl: “I’m 
afraid we ain’t scarcely smart enough 
for you already.’’ 

Had she any idea how much he was 
in their power? Was this a taunt or 
a chance shot? 

“Oh no, I think not,’’ he said. “You 
see. Miss Bryant, I’m used to Bellevue 
street now. By the way, I shall dine 
out again to-morrow.’’ 

“What! again to-morrow?’’ Lydia 
compressed her lips and looked at him. 
“ Oh, very well : it is a fine thing to have 
friends make so much of one,’’ she said 
as she turned to leave the room. 

Percival came home late the next 
evening. As he passed Judith’s sitting- 
room the door stood wide and revealed 
its desolate emptiness. Was she gone, 
absolutely gone ? And he had been out 
and had never had a word of farewell 
from her ! Perhaps she had looked for 
him in the middle of the day and won- 
dered why he did not come. Down 
stairs he heard Lydia calling to the 
girl: “Emma, didn’t I tell you to put 
the ‘ Lodgings ’ card up in the windows 
as soon as Miss Lisle was out of the 
house ? It might just as well have been 
up before. What d’ye mean by leaving 


it lying here on the table ? You’re 
enough to provoke a saint — that you 
are ! How d’ye know a score of peo- 
ple mayn’t have been looking for 
lodgings to-day, and I dare say there 
won’t be one to-morrow. If ever there 
was a lazy, good-for-nothing — ’’ The 
violent slamming of the kitchen-door 
cut off the remainder of the discourse, 
but a shrill screaming voice might still 
be heard. Percival was certain that the 
tide of eloquence flowed on undimin- 
ished, though of articulate words he 
could distinguish none. It is to be 
feared that Emma was less fortunate. 

It was true, then. Judith was gone, and 
that without a farewell look or touch of 
the hand to mark the day ! They had 
lived for months under the same roof, and, 
though days might pass without granting 
them a glimpse of each other, the possi- 
bility of a meeting was continually with 
them. It was only that night that Per- 
cival, sitting by his cheerless fireside, un- 
derstood what that possibility had been 
to him. He consoled himself as well as 
he could for his ignorance.of the hour of 
Judith’s departure by reflecting that Lydia 
would have followed her about with ma- 
licious watchfulness, and would either 
have played the spy at their interview 
or invented a parting instead of that 
which she had not seen. “ She can’t 
gossip now,’’ thought Percival. 

Meanwhile, Lydia perceived, beyond 
a doubt, that they must have arranged 
some way of meeting, since they had 
not taken the trouble to say “Good- 
bye.” 



246 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

ENGAGEMENTS — HOSTILE AND OTHERWISE, 



T he fairest season of the year, the 
debatable ground between spring 
and summer, had come round once 
more. There were leaves on the trees 
and flowers in the grass. The sunshine 
was golden and full, not like the bleak 
brightness of March. The winds were 
warm, the showers soft. Percival, al- 
ways keenly affected by such influences, 
felt as if a new life had come to him 
with the spring. Now that the evenings 
had grown long and light, he could escape 
into the country, breathe a purer air and 
wander in fields and lanes. And as he 
wandered, musing, it seemed to him that 
he had awakened from a dream. 

He looked back upon the past year, 
and he was more than half inclined to 
call himself a fool. He had taken up 
work for which he was not fit. He could 
see that now. He knew very well that 
his life was almost intolerable, and that 
it would never be more tolerable unless 
help came from without. He could nev- 
er grow accustomed to his drudgery. He 


could work honestly, but he could never 
put his heart into it. And even if he 
could have displayed ten times as much 
energy, if his aptitude for business had 
been ten times as great, if Mr. Ferguson 
had estimated him so highly as to take 
him as articled clerk, if he had passed 
all his examinations and been duly ad- 
mitted, if the brightest possibilities in 
such a life as his had become realities 
and he had attained at last to a small 
share in the business, — what would be 
the end of this most improbable success ? 
Merely that he would have to spend his 
whole life in Brenthill absorbed in law. 
Now, the law was a weariness to him, 
and he loathed Brenthill. Yet he had 
voluntarily accepted a life which could 
offer him no higher prize than such a | 
fate as this, when Godfrey Hammond or ^ 
Mrs. Middleton, or even old Hardwicke, 
would no doubt have helped him to some- 
thing better. 

Certainly he had been a fool ; and 
yet, while he realized this truth, he sin- 
cerely respected — I might almost say he 
admired — his own folly. He had been 
sick of dependence, and he had gone ; 
down at once to the bottom of every- 
thing, taken his stand on firm ground ^ 
and conquered independence for him- ; 
self. He had gained the precious know- 
ledge that he could earn his own living | 
by the labor of his hands. He might 
have been a fool to reject the help that 
would have opened some higher and 
less distasteful career to him, yet if he 
had accepted it he would never have 
known the extent of his own powers. 

He would have been a hermit-crab still, 
fitted with another shell by the kindness ; 
of his friends. Had he clearly under- 
stood what he was doing when he went * 
to Brenthill, it was very likely that he 
might never have gone. He was almost ‘ 
glad that he had not understood. 

And now, having conquered in the j 
race, could he go back and ask for the ? 
help which he had once refused ? Hard- | 


*^FOR PERCIVALr 


247 


ly. The life in which we first gain inde- 
pendence may be stern and ugly, the in- 
dependence itself — when we gather in 
our harvest — may have a rough and 
bitter taste, yet it will spoil the palate 
for all other flavors. They will seem 
sickly sweet after its wholesome auster- 
ity. Neither did Percival feel any great- 
er desire for a career of any kind than 
he had felt a year earlier when he talked 
over his future life with Godfrey Ham- 
mond. If he were asked what was his 
day-dream, his castle in the air, the ut- 
most limit of his earthly wishes, he would 
answer now as he would have answered 
then, "Brackenhill,” dismissing the im- 
possible idea with a smile even as he 
uttered it. Asked what would content 
him — since we can hardly hope to draw 
the highest prize in our life’s lottery — he 
would answer now as then — to have an 
assured income sufficient to allow him to 
wander on the Continent, to see pictures, 
old towns, Alps, rivers, blue sky ; wan- 
dering, to remain a foreigner all his life, 
so that there might always be something 
a little novel and curious about his food 
and his manner of living (things which 
are apt to grow so hideously common- 
place in the land where one is born), to 
drink the wine of the country, to read 
many poems in verse, in prose, in the 
scenery around; and through it all, from 
first to last, to “dream deliciously.” 

And yet, even while he felt that his 
desire was unchanged, he knew that 
there was a fresh obstacle between him 
and its fulfilment. Heaven help him! 
had there not been enough before ? Was 
it needful that it should become clear to 
him that nowhere on earth could he find 
the warmth and the sunlight for which he 
pined while a certain pair of sad eyes grew 
ever sadder and sadder looking out on the 
murky sky, the smoke, the dust, the busy 
industry of Brenthill ? How could he go 
away ? Even these quiet walks of his had 
pain mixed with their pleasure when he 
thought that there was no such liberty 
for Judith Lisle. Not for her the cowslips 
in the upland pastures, the hawthorn in 
the hedges, the elm -boughs high against 
the breezy sky, the first dog-roses pink 
upon the briers. Percival turned from 


them to look at the cloud which hung 
ever like a dingy smear above Brenthill, 
and the more he felt their loveliness the 
more he felt her loss. 

He had no walk on Sunday mornings. 
A few months earlier Mr. Clifton of St. 
Sylvester’s would have claimed him as 
a convert. Now he was equally devout, 
but it was the evangelical minister, Mr. 
Bradbury of Christ Church, who saw him 
week after week a regular attendant, un- 
daunted and sleepless though the sermon 
should be divided into seven heads. Mr. 
Bradbury preached terribly, in a voice 
which sometimes died mournfully away 
or hissed in a melodramatic whisper, and 
then rose suddenly in a threatening cry. 
Miss Macgregor sat in front of a gallery 
and looked down on the top of her pas- 
tor’s head. The double row of little boys 
who were marshalled at her side grew 
drowsy in the hot weather, blinked fee- 
bly as the discourse progressed, and nod- 
ded at the congregation. Now and then 
Mr. Bradbury, who was only, as it were, 
at arm’s length, turned a little, looked up 
and flung a red-hot denunciation into the 
front seats of the gallery. The little boys 
woke up, heard what was most likely in 
store for them on the last day, and sat 
with eyes wide open dismally surveying 
the prospect. But presently the next boy 
fidgeted, or a spider let himself down 
from the roof, or a bird flew past the 
window, or a slanting ray of sunlight 
revealed a multitude of dusty dancing 
motes, and the little lads forgot Mr. 
Bradbury, who had forgotten them and 
was busy with somebody else. It might 
be with the pope : Mr. Bradbury was fond 
of providing for the pope. Or perhaps 
he was wasting his energy on Percival 
Thorne, who sat with his head thrown 
back and his upward glance just miss- 
ing the preacher, and was quite undis- 
turbed by his appeals. 

Judith Lisle had accepted the offer of a 
situation at Miss Macgregor’s with the ex- 
pectation of being worked to death, only 
hoping, as she told Mrs. Barton, that the 
process would be slow. The hope would 
not have been at all an unreasonable one 
if she had undertaken her task in the days 
when she had Bertie to work for. She 


248 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


could have lived through much when 
she lived for Bertie. But, losing her 
brother, the mainspring of her life seem- 
ed broken. One would have said that 
she had leaned on him, not he on her, 
she drooped so pitifully now he was gone. 
Even Miss Macgregor noticed that Miss 
Lisle was delicate, and expressed her 
strong disapprobation of such a state 
of alfairs. Mrs. Barton thought Judith 
looking very far from well, suggested 
tonics, and began to consider whether 
she might ask her to go to them for her 
summer holidays. But to Percival’s eyes 
there was a change from week to week, 
and he watched her with terror in his 
heart. Judith had grown curiously 
younger during the last few months. 
There had been something of a mother’s 
tenderness in her love for Bertie, which 
made her appear more than her real age 
and gave decision and stateliness to her 
manner. Now that she was alone, she 
was only a girl, silent and shrinking, 
needing all her strength to suffer and 
hide her sorrow. Percival knew that 
each Sunday, as soon as she had taken 
her place, she would look downward to 
the pew where he always sat to ascertain 
if he were there. For a moment he would 
meet that quiet gaze, lucid, uncomplain- 
ing, but very sad. Then her eyes would 
be turned to her book or to the little boys 
who sat near her, or it might even be to 
Mr. Bradbury. The long service would 
begin, go on, come to an end. But be- 
fore she left her place her glance would 
meet his once more, as if in gentle fare- 
well until another Sunday should come 
round. Percival would not for worlds 
have failed at that trysting - place, but 
he cursed his helplessness. Could he 
do nothing for Judith but cheer her 
through Mr. Bradbury’s sermons? 

About this time he used deliberately 
to indulge in an impossible fancy. His 
imagination dwelt on their two lives, 
cramped, dwarfed and fettered. He had 
lost his freedom, but it seemed to him that 
Judith, burdened once with riches, and 
later with poverty, never had been free. 
He looked forward, and saw nothing in 
the future but a struggle for existence 
which might be prolonged through years 


of labor and sordid care. Why were they 
bound to endure this ? Why could they 
not give up all for just a few days of hap- 
piness ? Percival longed intensely for a 
glimpse of beauty, for a little space of ; 
warmth and love, of wealth and liberty. ; 
Let their life thus blossom together into | 
joy, and he would be content that it 
should be, like the flowering of the aloe, 
followed by swift and inevitable death. \ 
Only let the death be shared like the 
life ! It would be bitter and terrible to 
be struck down in their gladness, but if 
they had truly lived they might be satis- 
fied to die. Percival used to fancy what 
they might do in one glorious, golden, : 
sunlit week, brilliant against a black ' 
background of death. How free they 
would be to spend all they possessed 
without a thought for the future ! Noth- 
ing could pall upon them, and he pictured ; 
to himself how every sense would be quick- i 
ened, how passion would gather strength 
and tenderness, during those brief days, \ 
and rise to its noblest height to meet the 
end. His imagination revelled in the 
minute details of the picture, adding 
one by one a thousand touches of beauty ; 
and joy till the dream was lifelike in its * 
loveliness. He could pass in a moment ] 
from his commonplace world to this en- 
chanted life with Judith. Living alone, ' 
and half starving himself in the attempt 
to pay his debts, he was in a fit state to 
see visions and dream dreams. But they 
only made his present life more distaste- 
ful to him, and the more he dreamed of 
Judith the more he felt that he had noth- i 
ing to offer her. ■ 

He was summoned abruptly from his 
fairyland one night by the arrival of Mrs. 
Bryant. She made her appearance rather 
suddenly, and sat down on a chair by the 
door to have a little chat with her lodg- 
er. “I came back this afternoon,” she 1 
said. ‘‘ I didn’t tell Lydia : where was i 
the use of bothering about writing to 
her? Besides, I could just have a look •; 
round, and see how Emma ’d done the J 
work while I was away, and how things \ 
had gone on altogether.” She nodded * 
her rusty black cap confidentially at Per- 
cival. It was sprinkled with bugles, which ' ' 
caught the light of his solitary candle. 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


249 


“I hope you found all right,” he said. 

‘‘Pretty well,” Mrs. Bryant allowed. 
‘‘ It’s a mercy when there’s no illness 
nor anything of that kind, though, if 
you’ll excuse my saying it, Mr. Thorne, 
you ain’t looking as well yourself as I 
should have liked to see you.” 

‘‘Oh, I am all right, thank you,” said 
Percival. 

Mrs. Bryant shook her head. The 
different movement brought out quite 
a different effect of glancing bugles. 
‘‘Young people should be careful of 
their health,” was her profound remark. 

‘‘I assure you there’s nothing the mat- 
ter with me.” 

‘‘Well, well! we’ll hope not,” she an- 
swered, ‘‘though you certainly do look 
altered, Mr. Thorne, through being thin- 
ner in the face and darker under the 
eyes.” 

Percival smiled impatiently. 

‘‘What was I saying?” Mrs. Bryant 
continued. ‘‘Oh yes — that there was a 
many mercies to be thankful for. To 
find the house all right, and the times 
and times I’ve dreamed of fire and the 
engines not to be had, and woke up 
shaking so as you’d hardly believe it ! 
And I don’t really think that I’ve gone 
to bed hardly one night without wonder- 
ing whether Lydia had fastened the door 
and the little window into the yard, which 
is not safe if left open. As regular as 
clockwork, when the time came round. 
I’d mention it to my sister.” 

Percival sighed briefly, probably pity- 
ing the sister. ‘‘I think Miss Bryant 
has been very careful in fastening ev- 
erything,” he said. 

‘‘ Well, it does seem so, and very thank- 
ful I am. And as I always say when I go 
out, ‘ Waste I mttst expect, and waste I 
do expect,’ but it’s a mercy when there’s 
no thieving.” 

‘‘Things will hardly go on quite the 
same when you are not here to look 
after them, Mrs. Bryant.” 

‘‘ No : how should they ?” the landlady 
acquiesced. ‘‘ Young heads ain’t like old 
ones, as I said one evening to my sister 
when Smith was by. ‘ Young heads ain’t 
like old ones,’ said I. ‘ Why, no,’ said 
Smith : ‘ they’re a deal prettier.’ I told 


him he ought to have done thinking of 
such things. And so he ought — a man 
of his age ! But that’s what the young 
men mostly think of, ain’t it, Mr. Thorne ? 
Though it’s the old heads make the best 
housekeepers, I think, when there’s a lot 
of lodgers to look after.” 

‘‘Very likely,” said Percival. 

‘‘ I dare say you think there’d be fine 
times for the young men lodgers if it 
wasn’t for the old’ heads. And I don’t 
blame you, Mr. Thorne : it’s only nat- 
ural, and what we must expect in grow- 
ing old. And if anything could make 
one grow old before one’s time, and live 
two years in one, so to speak, I do think 
it’s letting lodgings.” 

Percival expressed himself as not sur- 
prised to hear it, though very sorry that 
lodgers were so injurious to her health. 

‘‘ There’s my drawing-room empty now, 
and two bedrooms,” Mrs. Bryant con- 
tinued. ‘‘Not but what I’ve had an of- 
fer for it this very afternoon, since com- 
ing back. But it doesn’t do to be too 
hasty. Respectable parties who pay reg- 
ular,” she nodded a little at Percival as 
if to point the compliment, ‘‘are the par- 
ties for me.” 

‘‘Of course,” he said. 

‘‘A queer business that of young Mr. 
Lisle’s, wasn’t it?” she went on. ‘‘I 
should say it was about time that Miss 
Crawford did shut up, if she couldn’t 
manage her young ladies better. I sent 
my Lydia to a boarding-school once, but 
it was one of a different kind to that. 
Pretty goings on there were at Standon 
Square, I’ll be bound, if we only knew 
the truth. But as far as this goes there 
ain’t no great harm done, that I can see. 
He hasn’t done badly for himself, and 
I dare say they’ll be very comfortable. 
She might have picked a worse — I will 
say that — for he was always a pleasant- 
spoken young gentleman, and good- 
looking too, though that’s not a thing 
to set much store by. And they do say 
he had seen better times.” 

She paused. Percival murmured some- 
thing which was quite unintelligible, but 
it served to start her off again, apparent- 
ly under the impression that she had 
heard a remark of some kind. 


250 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


“Yes, I suppose so. And as I was 
saying to Lydia — The coolness of them 
both ! banns and all regular ! But there 
now! I’m talking and talking, forget- 
ting that you were in the thick of it. 
You knew all about it. I’ve no doubt, 
and finely you and he must have laugh- 
ed in your sleeves — ’’ 

“I knew nothing about it, Mrs. Bry- 
ant — nothing.’’ 

Mrs. Bryant smiled cunningly and 
nodded at him again. But it was an 
oblique nod this time, and there was a 
sidelong look to match it. Percival felt 
as if he were suffering from an aggra- 
vated form of nightmare. 

“No, no: I dare say you didn’t. At 
any rate, you won’t let out if you did : 
M'hy should you ? It’s a great thing to 
hold one’s tongue, Mr. Thorne; and I 
ought to know, for I’ve found the ad- 
vantage of being naturally a silent wo- 
man. And I don’t say but what you 
are wise.’’ 

“I knew nothing,’’ he repeated dog- 
gedly. 

“Well, I don’t suppose it was any the 
worse for anybody who did know,’’ said 
Mrs. Bryant. “And though, of course. 
Miss Lisle lost her situation through it, 
I dare say she finds it quite made up to 
her.’’ 

“Not at all,’’ said Percival shortly. 
The conversation was becoming intol- 
erable. 

“Oh, you may depend upon it she 
does,’’ said Mrs. Bryant. “How should 
a gentleman like you know all the ins 
and outs, Mr. Thorne ? It makes all 
the difference to a young woman having 
a brother well-to-do in the world. And 
very fond of her he always seemed to be, 
as I was remarking to Lydia.’’ 

Percival felt as if his blood were on 
fire. He dared not profess too intimate 
a knowledge of Judith’s feelings and po- 
sition, and he could not listen in silence. 
“ I think you are mistaken, Mrs. Bryant,’’ 
he said, in a tone which would have be- 
trayed his angry disgust to any more 
sensitive ear. Even his landlady per- 
ceived that the subject was not a wel- 
come one. 

“Well, well!’’ she said. “It doesn’t 


matter, and I’ll only wish you as good 
luck as Mr. Lisle ; for I’m sure you de- 
serve a young lady with a little bit of 
money as well as he did ; and no reason 
why you shouldn’t look to find one, one 
of these fine days.’’ 

“No, Mrs. Bryant, I sha’n’t copy Mr. 
Lisle.’’ 

“Ah, you’ve something else in your 
eye, I can see, and perhaps one might 
make a guess as to a name. Well, peo- 
ple must manage those things their own 
way, and interfering mostly does harm, 
I take it. And I’ll wish you luck, any- 
how.’’ 

“ I don’t think there’s any occasion 
for your good wishes,’’ said Percival. 
“Thank you all the same.’’ 

“Not but what I’m sorry to lose Mr. 
and Miss Lisle,’’ Mrs. Bryant continued, 
as if that were the natural end of her 
previous sentence, “for they paid for 
everything most regular.’’ 

“I hope these people who want to 
come may do the same,’’ said Percival. 
Though he knew that he ran the risk 
of hearing all that Mrs. Bryant could tell 
him about their condition and prospects, 
he felt he could endure anything that 
would turn the conversation from the 
Lisles and himself. 

But there was a different train of ideas 
in Mrs. Bryant’s mind. “And, by the 
way,’’ she said, “I think we’ve some 
little accounts to settle together, Mr. 
Thorne.’’ Then Percival perceived, for 
the first time, that she held a folded bit 
of paper in her hand. The moment that 
he feared had come. He rose without a 
word, went to his desk and unlocked it. 
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that 
Mrs. Bryant had approached the table, 
had opened the paper and was flatten- 
ing it out with her hand. He stooped 
over his hoard — a meagre little hoard 
this time — counting what he had to give 
her. 

Mrs. Bryant began to hunt in her purse 
for a receipt stamp. “ It’s a pleasure to 
have to do with a gentleman who is 
always so regular,’’ she said with an 
approving smile. 

Percival, who was steadying a little 
pile of coin on the sloping desk, felt a 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


251 


. strong desire to tell her the state of af- 
fairs while he stooped in the shadow 
with his face turned away. Precisely 
because he felt this desire he drew hirri- 
self up to his full height, walked to the 
table, looked straight into her eyes and 
said, " Not so very regular this time, Mrs. 
Bryant.” 

She stepped back with a perplexed 
and questioning expression, but she un- 
derstood that something was wrong, and 
the worn face fell suddenly, deepening a 
multitude of melancholy wrinkles. He 
laid the money before her: "That’s just 
half of what I owe you : I think you’ll 
find I have counted it all right.” 

“Half.? But where’s the other half, 
Mr. Thorne.?” 

"Well, I must earn the other half, 
Mrs. Bryant. You shall have it as soon 
as I get it.” 

She looked up at him. “ You’ve got to 
earn it ?” she repeated. Her tone would 
have been more appropriate if Percival 
had said he must steal it. There was a 
pause : Mrs. Bryant’s lean hand closed 
over the money. “ I don’t understand this, 
Mr. Thorne — I don’t understand it at all.” 

“It is very simple,” he replied. "Ac- 
cording to your wishes, I kept the rent 
for you, but during your absence there 
was a sudden call upon me for money, 
and I could not refuse to advance it. I 
regret it exceedingly if it puts you to in- 
convenience. I had hoped to have made 
it all right before you returned, but I have 
not had time. I can only promise you 
that you shall be paid all that I can put 
by each week till I have cleared off my 
debt.” 

“Oh, that’s all very fine,” said Mrs. 
Bryant. “But I don’t think much of 
promises.” 

“I’m sorry to hear it,” he answered 
gravely. 

She looked hard at him, and said : “ I 
did think you were quite the gentleman, 
Mr. Thorne. I didn’t think you’d have 
served me so.” 

“ No,” said Percival. “ I assure you I’m 
very sorry. If I could explain the whole 
affair to you, you would see that I am not 
to blame. But, unluckily, I can’t.” 

“ Oh, I don’t want any explanations : 


I wouldn’t give a thank-you for a cart- 
load of ’em. Nobody ever is to blame 
who has the explaining of a thing, if it’s 
ever so rascally a job.” 

“ I am very sorry,” he repeated. “ But 
I can only say that you shall be paid.” 

“Oh, I dare say! Look here, Mr. 
Thorne : I’ve heard that sort of thing 
scores of times. There’s always been 
a sudden call for money; it’s always 
something that never happened before, 
and it isn’t ever to happen again ; and 
it’s always going to be paid back at once, 
but there’s notone in a hundred who does 
pay it. Once you begin that sort of 
thing — ” 

“You’ll find me that hundredth one,” 
said Percival. 

“ Oh yes. To hear them talk you’d say 
each one was one in a thousand, at least. 
But I’d like you to know that though I’m 
a widow woman I’m not to be robbed and 
put upon.” 

“ Mrs. Bryant ” — Percival’s strong voice 
silenced her querulous tones — “no one 
wants to rob you. Please to remember 
that it was entirely of your own free-will 
that you trusted me with the money.” 

“More fool 1 1” Mrs. Bryant ejaculated. 

“ It was to oblige you that I took charge 
of it.” 

“And a pretty mess I’ve made of it! 
It had better have gone so as to be some 
pleasure to my own flesh and blood, in- 
stead of your spending it in some way 
you’re ashamed to own.” 

“ If you had been here to receive it, it 
would h,ave been ready for you,” Perci- 
val went on, ignoring her last speech. 
“As it is, it has waited all these weeks 
for you. It isn’t unreasonable that it 
should wait a little longer for me.” 

She muttered something to the effect 
that there was justice to be had, though 
he didn’t seem to think it. 

“Oh yes,” he said, resting his arm on 
the chimney-piece, “there’s the county 
court or something of that kind. By all 
means go to the county court if you like. 
But I see no occasion for discussing the 
matter any more beforehand.” 

His calmness had its effect upon her. 
She didn’t want any unpleasantness, she 
I said. 


252 


-^^FOR PERCIVALF 


“Neither do I,” he replied: “I do not 
see why there need be any. If I live 
you will be paid, and that before very 
long. If I should happen to die first, I 
have a friend who will settle my affairs 
for me, and you will be no loser.” 

Mrs. Bryant suggested that it might be 
pleasanter for all parties if Mr. Thorne 
were to apply to his friend at once. She 
thought very likely there were little bills 
about in the town — gentlemen very often 
had little bills — and if there were any 
difficulties — gentlemen so often got into 
difficulties — it was so much better to have 
things settled and make a fresh start. 
She had no doubt that Mr. Lisle would 
be very willing. 

“Mr. Lisle !” Percival exclaimed. “ Do 
you suppose for one moment I should ask 
Mr. Lisle?” 

Startled at his vehemence, Mrs. Bry- 
ant begged pardon, and substituted “the 
gentleman ” for “ Mr. Lisle.” 

“Thank you, no,” said Percival. “I 
prefer to manage my own affairs in my 
own way. If I live I will not apply to 
any one. But if I must go to my grave 
owing five or six weeks’ rent to one or 
other of you, I assure you most solemn- 
ly, Mrs. Bryant, that I will owe it to my 
friend.” 

The storm had subsided into subdued 
grumblings. Their purport was, appar- 
ently, that Mrs. Bryant liked lodgers who 
paid regular, and as for those who didn’t, 
they would have to leave, and she wish- 
ed them to know it. 

“Does that mean that you wish me to 
go ?” the young man demanded with the 
readiness which was too much for his 
landlady. “ I’ll go to-night if you like. 
Do you wish it ?” There was an air of 
such promptitude about him as he spoke 
that Mrs. Bryant half expected to see 
him vanish then and there. She had 
by no means made up her mind that 
she did wish to lose a lodger who had 
been so entirely satisfactory up to that 
time. And she preferred to keep her 
debtor within reach; so she drew back 
a little and qualified what she had said. 

“Very well,” said Percival, “just as 
you please.” 

Mrs. Bryant only hoped it wouldn’t 


occur again. The tempest of her wrath 
showed fearful symptoms of dissolving in 
a shower of tears. “ You don’t know what 
work I have to make both ends meet, Mr. 
Thorne,” she said, “nor how hard it is 
to get one’s own, let alone keeping it. 
I do assure you, Mr. Thorne, me and 
Lydia might go in silks every day of 
our lives, and needn’t so much as soil 
our fingers with the work of the house, 
if we had all we rightly should have. 
But there are folks who call themselves 
honest who don’t think any harm of tak- 
ing a widow woman’s rooms and getting 
behindhand with the rent, running up an 
account for milk and vegetables and the 
like by the week together; and there’s 
the bell ringing all day, as you may say, 
with the bills coming in, and one’s almost 
driven out of one’s wits with the worry of 
it all, let alone the loss, which is hard to 
bear. Oh, I do hope, Mr. Thorne, that it 
won’t occur again !” 

" It isn’t very likely,” said Percival, pri- 
vately thinking that suicide would be pref- 
erable to an existence in which such in- 
terviews with his landlady should be of 
frequent occurrence. Pity, irritation, dis- 
gust, pride and humiliation made up a 
state of feeling which was overshadow- 
ed by a’ horrible fear that Mrs. Bryant 
would begin to weep before he could get 
rid of her. He watched her with ever-in- 
creasing uneasiness while she attempted 
to give him a receipt for the money he 
had paid. She began by wiping her 
spectacles, but her hand trembled so 
much that she let them fall, and she, 
Percival and the candle were all on the 
floor together, assisting one another in 
the search for them. The rusty cap was 
perilously near the flame more than once, 
which was a cause of fresh anxiety on his 
part. And when she was once more es- 
tablished at the table, writing a word or 
two and then wiping her eyes, it was dis- 
tracting to discover that the receipt-stamp, 
which Mrs. Bryant had brought with her, 
and which she was certain she had laid 
on the table, had mysteriously disappear- 
ed. It seemed to Percival that he spent 
at least a quarter of an hour hunting for 
that stamp. In reality about two minutes 
elapsed before it was found sticking to 


*^FOR PERCIVALR 


Mrs. Bryant’s damp pocket handkerchief. 
It was removed thence with great care, 
clinging to her fingers by the way, after 
which it showed a not unnatural disin- 
clination to adhere to the paper. But 
even that difficulty was at last over- 
come : a shaky signature and a date 
were laboriously penned, and Percival’s 
heart beat high as he received the com- 
pleted document. 

And then — Mrs. Bryant laid down 
the pen, took off her spectacles, shook 
her pocket handkerchief and deliberate- 
ly burst into tears. 

Percival was in despair. Of course 
he knew perfectly well that he was not 
a heartless brute, but equally of course 
he felt that he must be a heartless 
brute as he stood by while Mrs. Bry- 
ant wept copiously. Of course he beg- 
ged her to calm herself, and of course 
a long-drawn sob was her only answer. 
All at once there was a knock at the 
door. “Come in,” said Percival, feel- 
ing that matters could not possibly be 
worse. It opened, and Lydia stood on 
the threshold, staring at the pair in 
much surprise. 

“Well, I never!” she said; and turn- 
ing toward Percival she eyed him sus- 
piciously, as if she thought he might 
have been knocking the old lady about. 
“And pray what may be the meaning of 
this ?” 

“Mrs. Bryant isn’t quite herself this 
evening, I am afraid,” said Percival, 
feeling that his reply was very feeble. 
“And we have had a little business to 
settle which was not quite satisfactory.” 

At the word “business” Lydia step- 
ped forward, and her surprise gave 
place to an expression of half incred- 
ulous amusement — Percival would al- 
most have said of delight. 

“What! ain’t the money all right?” 
she said. “You don’t say so! Well, 
ma, you have been clever this time, 
haven’t you ? Oh I suppose you thought 
I didn’t know what you were after when 
you were so careful about not bothering 
me with the accounts ? Lor ! I knew fast 
enough. Don’t you feel proud of your- 
self for having managed it so well?” 

Mrs. Bryant wept. Percival, not hav- | 


253 

ing a word to say, preserved a dignified 
silence. 

“ Come along, ma : I dare say Mr. 
Thorne has had about enough of this,” 
• Lydia went on, coolly examining the pa- 
per which lay on the table. She arrived 
at the total. “ Oh that’s it, is it ? Well, 
I like that, I do ! Some people are so 
clever, ain’t they ? So wonderfully sharp 
they can’t trust their own belongings ! I 
do like that! Come along, ma.” And 
Lydia seconded her summons with such 
energetic action that it seemed to Per- 
cival that she absolutely swept the old 
lady out of the room, and that the wet 
handkerchief, the rusty black gown and 
the bugle-sprinkled head-dress vanish- 
ed in a whirlwind, with a sound of shrill 
laughter on the stairs. 

For a moment his heart leapt with a 
sudden sense of relief and freedom, but 
only for a moment. Then he flung him- 
self into his arm-chair, utterly dejected 
and sickened. 

Should he be subject to this kind of 
thing all his life long ? If he should 
chance to be ill and unable to work, 
how could he live for any length of time 
on his paltry savings ? And debt would 
mean this I He need not even be ill. 
He remembered how he broke his arm 
once when he was a lad. Suppose he 
broke his arm now — a bit of orange-peel 
in the street might do it — or suppose he 
hurt the hand with which he wrote ? 

And this was the life which he might 
ask Judith to share with him ! She might 
endure Mrs. Bryant’s scolding and Lyd- 
ia’s laughter, and pinch and save as he 
was forced to do, and grow weary and 
careworn and sick at heart. No, God 
forbid ! And yet — and yet — was she hot 
enduring as bad or worse in that hateful 
school ? 

Oh for his dream ! One week of life 
and love, and then swift exit from a hid- 
eous world, where Mrs. Bryant and Miss 
Macgregor and Lydia and all his other 
nightmares might do their worst and fight 
their hardest in their ugly struggle for ex- 
istence ! 

Percival had achieved something of a 
victory in his encounter with his land- 
I lady. His manner had been calm and 


254 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


fairly easy, and from first to last she had 
been more conscious of his calmness than 
Percival was himself. She had been si- 
lenced, not coaxed and flattered as she 
often was by unfortunate lodgers whose 
ready money ran short. Indeed, she 
had been defied, and when she recover- 
ed herself a little she declared that she 
had never seen any one so stuck up as 
Mr. Thorne. This was unkind, after he 
had gone down on his knees to look for 
her spectacles. 

But if Percival had conquered, his was 
but a barren victory. He fancied that an 
unwonted tone of deference crept into his 
voice when he gave his orders. He was 
afraid of Mrs. Bryant. He faced Lydia 
bravely, but he winced in secret at the 
recollection of her laughter. He very 
nearly starved himself lest mother or 
daughter should be able to say, “ Mr. 
Thorne might have remembered his 
debts before he ordered this or that.” 
He had paid Lisle’s bill at Mr. Robin- 
son’s, but he could not forget his own, 
and he walked past the house daily with 
his head high, feeling himself a miser- 
able coward. 

There was a draper’s shop close to it, 
and as he went by one day he saw a lit- 
tle pony chaise at the door. A girl of 
twelve or thirteen sat in it listlessly hold- 
ing the reins and looking up and down 
the street. It was a great field-day for 
the Brenthill volunteers, and their band 
came round a corner not a dozen yards 
away and suddenly struck up a trium- 
phant march. The pony, although as 
quiet a little creature as you could ea- 
sily find, was startled. If it had been a 
wooden rocking-horse it might not have 
minded, but any greater sensibility must 
have received a shock. The girl uttered 
a cry of alarm, but there was no cause 
for it. Percival, who was close at hand, 
stepped to the pony’s head, a lady rush- 
ed out of the shop, the band went by in 
a tempest of martial music, a crowd of 
boys and girls filled the roadway and 
disappeared as quickly as they came. 
It was all over in a minute. Percival, 
who was coaxing the pony as he stood, 
was warmly thanked. 

“There is nothing to thank me for,” 


he said. “That band was enough to 
frighten anything, but the pony seems 
a gentle little thing.” 

“ So it is,” the lady replied. “ But you 
see, the driver was very inexperienced, 
and we really are very much obliged to 
you, Mr. Thorne.” 

He looked at her in blank amazement. 
Had some one from his former life sud- 
denly arisen to claim acquaintance with 
him ? He glanced from her to the girl, 
but recognized neither. “You know me?” 
he said. 

She smiled: “You don’t know me, I 
dare say. I am Mrs. Barton. I saw you 
one day when I was just coming away af- 
ter calling on Miss Lisle.” She watched 
the hero of her romance as she spoke. 
His dark face lighted up suddenly. 

“ I have often heard Miss Lisle speak 
of you and of your kindness,” he said. 
“Do you ever see her now?” 

“Oh yes. She comes to give Janie 
her music-lesson every Wednesday af- 
ternoon. — We couldn’t do without Miss 
Lisle, could we, Janie?” The girl was 
shy and did not speak, but a broad 
smile overspread her face. 

“ I had no idea she still came to you. 
Do you know how she gets on at Miss 
Macgregor’s ?” he asked eagerly. “Is 
she well ? I saw her at church one 
day, and I thought she was pale.” 

“She says she is well,” Mrs. Barton 
replied. “But I am not very fond of 
Miss Macgregor myself: no one ever 
stays there very long.” A shopman 
came out and put a parcel into the 
chaise. Mrs. Barton took the reins. “ I 
shall tell Miss Lisle you asked after her,” 
she said as with a bow and cordial smile 
she drove off. 

It was Monday, and Percival’s mind 
was speedily made up. He would see 
Judith Lisle on Wednesday. 

Tuesday was a remarkably long day, 
but Wednesday came at last, and he ob- 
tained permission to leave the office ear- 
lier than usual. He knew the street in 
which Mrs. Barton lived, and had taken 
some trouble to ascertain the number, so 
that he could stroll to and fro at a safe 
distance, commanding a view of the 
door. 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


He had time to study the contents of 
a milliner’s window : it was the only shop 
near at hand, and even that pretended 
not to be a shop, but rather a private 
house, where some one had accidental- 
ly left a bonnet or two, a few sprays of 
artificial flowers and an old lady’s cap 
in the front room. He had abundant 
leisure to watch No. 51 taking in a sup- 
ply of coals, and No. 63 sending away 
a piano. He sauntered to and fro so 
long, with a careless assumption of un- 
consciousness how time was passing, that 
a stupid young policeman perceived that 
he was not an ordinary passer-by. As- 
tonished and delighted at his own pene- 
tration, he began to saunter and watch 
him, trying to make out which house he 
intended to favor with a midnight visit. 
Percival saw quite a procession of babies 
in perambulators being wheeled home by 
their nurses after their afternoon airing, 
and he discovered that the nurse at No. 
57 had a flirtation with a soldier. But 
at last the door of No. 69 opened, a slim 
figure came down the steps, and he start- 
ed to meet it, leisurely, but with a sudden 
decision and purpose in his walk. The 
young policeman saw the meeting: the 
whole affair became clear to him — why, 
he had done that sort of thing himself— 
and he hurried off rather indignantly, 
feeling that he had wasted his time, and 
that the supposed burglar had not be- 
haved at all handsomely. 

And Percival went forward and held 
out his hand to Judith, but found that 
even the most commonplace greeting 
stuck in his throat somehow. She look- 
ed quickly up at him, but she too was 
silent, and he walked a few steps by her 
side before he said, “ I did not know what 
day you were going away.” 

The rest of the conversation followed 
in a swift interchange of question and re- 
ply, as if to make up for that pause. 

” No, but I thought I should be sure to 
have a chance of saying good-bye.” 

“And I was out. I was very sorry 
when I came home and found that you 
were gone. But since we have met again, 
it doesn’t matter now, does it?” he said 
with a smile. ” How do you get on at 
Miss Macgregor’s ?” 


255 

‘‘Oh, very well,” she answered. ‘‘It 
will do for the present.” 

‘‘And Miss Crawford?” 

‘‘She will not see me nor hear from 
me. She is ill and low-spirited, and 
Mrs. Barton tells me that a niece has 
come to look after her.” 

‘‘Isn’t that rather a good thing?” 

‘‘No: I don’t like it. I saw one or 
two of those nieces — there are seven of 
them — great vulgar, managing women. 
I can’t bear to think of my dear little 
Miss Crawford being bullied and nursed 
by Miss Price. She couldn’t endure them, 
I know, only she was so fond of their 
mother.” 

Percival changed the subject : ‘‘ So you 
go to Mrs. Barton’s still ? I didn’t know 
that till last Monday.” 

‘‘ When you rescued Janie from immi- 
nent peril. Oh, I have heard,” said Ju- 
dith with a smile. 

‘‘Please to describe me as risking my 
own life in the act. It would be a pity 
not to make me heroic while you are 
about it.” 

‘‘Janie would readily believe it. She 
measures her danger by her terror, which 
was great. But she is a dear, good child, 
and it is such a pleasure to me to go there 
every week !” 

‘‘Ah! Then you are not happy at 
Miss Macgregor’s ?” 

‘‘ Well, not very. But it might be much 
worse. And I am mercenary enough to 
think about the money I earn at Mrs. Bar- 
ton’s,” said Judith. ‘‘ I don’t mind telling 
you now that Bertie left two or three lit- 
tle bills unpaid when he went away, and 
I was very anxious about them. But, 
luckily, they were small.” 

‘‘You don’t mind telling me now. Are 
they paid, then ?” 

‘‘Yes, and I have not heard of any 
more.” 

‘‘ You paid them out of your earnings ?” 

‘‘ Yes. You understand me, don’t you, 
Mr. Thorne ? Bertie and I were together 
then, and I could not take Emmeline’s 
money to pay our debts.” 

‘‘Yes, I understand.” 

‘‘And I had saved a little. It is all 
right now, since they are all paid. I 
fancied there would be some more to 


256 


^^FOR PERCIVALR 


come in, but it seems not, so I have a 
pound or two to spare, and I feel quite 
rich.” 

It struck Percival that Judith had man- 
aged better than he had. ” Do you ever 
hear from him?” he asked. 

“Yes. Mr. Nash has forgiven them.” 

“Already ?” 

Judith nodded : “ He has, though I 
thought he never would. Bertie un- 
derstood him better.” 

(The truth was, that she had taken im- 
potent rage for strength of purpose. Mr. 
Nash was aware that he had neglected 
his daughter, and was anxious to stifle 
the thought by laying the blame on every 
one else. And Bertie was quicker than 
Judith was in reading character when it 
was on his own level.) 

“ He has forgiven them,” Percival re- 
peated with a smile. “Well, Bertie is a 
lucky fellow.” 

“ So is my father lucky, if that is luck.” 

“Your father ?” 

“Yes. He has written to me and to 
my aunt Lisle — at Rookleigh, you know. 
He has taken another name, and it seems 
he is getting on and making money : he 
wanted to send me some too. And my 
aunt is angry with me because I would 
not go to her. She has given me two 
months to make up my mind in.” 

“And you will not go?” 

“I cannot leave Brenthill,” said Judith. 
“ She is more than half inclined to forgive 
Bertie too. So I am alone ; and yet I am 
right.” She uttered the last words with 
lingering sadness. 

“ No doubt,” Percival answered. They 
were walking slowly through a quiet back 
street, with a blank wall on one side. 
“Still, it is hard,” he said. 

There was something so simple and 
tender in his, tone that Judith looked up 
and met his eyes. She might have read 
his words in them even if he had not 
spoken. “Don’t pity me, Mr. Thorne,” 
she said. 

“ Why not ?” 

“ Oh, because — I hardly know why. 
I can’t stand it when any one is kind to 
me, or sorry for me, sometimes at Mrs. 
Barton’s. I don’t know how to bear it. 
But it does not matter much, for I get 


braver and braver when people are hard 
and cold. I really don’t mind that half 
as much as you would think, so you 
see you needn’t pity me. In fact, you 
mustn’t.” 

“ Indeed, I think I must,” said Per- 
cival. “ More than before.” 

“No, no,” she answered, hurriedly. 
“Don’t say it, don’t look it, don’t even 
let me think you do it in your heart. 
Tell me about yourself. You listen to 
me, you ask about me, but you say 
nothing of what you are doing.” 

“Working.” There was a moment’s 
hesitation. “And dreaming,” he added. 

“ But vou have been ill ?” 

“Noti.” 

“You have not been ill? Then you 
are ill. What makes you so pale ?” 

He laughed: “Am I pale?” 

“And you look tired.” 

“My work is wearisome sometimes.” 

“More so than it was?” she question- 
ed anxiously. “You used not to look 
so tired.” 

“Don’t you think that a wearisome 
thing must grow more wearisome mere- 
ly by going on ?” 

“ But is that all ? Isn’t there anything 
else the matter ?” 

“Perhaps there is,” he allowed. “There 
are little worries of course, but shall I tell 
you what is the great thing that is the 
matter with me?” 

“If you will.” 

“I miss you, Judith.” 

The color spread over her face like a^ 
rosy dawn. Her eyes were fixed on the 
pavement, and yet they looked as if they 
caught a glimpse of Eden. But Percival 
could not see that. “You miss me?” 
she said. 

“Yes.” He had forgotten his hesita- 
tion and despair. He had outstripped 
them, had left them far behind, and his 
words sprang to his lips with a glad sense 
of victory and freedom. “ Must I miss you 
always?” he said. “Will you not come 
back to me, Judith ? My work could 
never be wearisome then when I should 
feel that I was working for you. There 
would be long to wait, no doubt, and then 
a hard life, a poor home. What have I 
to offer you ? But will you come ?” 


'^FOR PERCIVALF 


257 


She looked up at him : “ Do you real- 
ly want me, or is it that you are sorry for 
me and want to help me ? Are you sure 
it isn’t that ? We Lisles have done you 
harm enough : I won’t do you a worse 
wrong still.” 

“You will do me the worst wrong of all 
if you let such fears and fancies stand 
between you and me,” said Percival. 
’’ Do you not know that I love you ? You 
must decide as your own heart tells you. 
But don’t doubt me.” 

She laid her hand lightly on his arm : 
“Forgive me, Percival.” 

And so those two passed together into 
the Eden which she had seen. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

HOW THE SUN ROSE IN GLADNESS, AND 
SET IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 
OF DEATH. 

The Wednesday which was so white 
a day for Judith and Percival had dawn- 
ed brightly at Fordborough. Sissy, open- 
ing her eyes on the radiant beauty of the 
morning, sprang up with an exclamation 
of delight. The preceding day had been 
gray and uncertain, but this was golden 
and cloudless. A light breeze tossed the 
acacia-boughs and showed flashes of blue 
between the quivering sprays. The dew 
was still hanging on the clustered white 
roses which climbed to her open window, 
and the birds were singing among the 
leaves as if they were running races in a 
headlong rapture of delight. Sissy did 
not sing, but she said to herself, “Oh, 
how glad the Latimers must be !” 

She was right, for at a still earlier hour 
the Latimer girls had been flying in and 
out of their respective rooms in a perfect- 
ly aimless, joyous, childishly happy fash- 
ion, like a flock of white pigeons. And 
the sum of their conversation was simply 
this : “ Oh, what a day ! what a glorious 
day !” Yet it sufficed for a Babel of 
bird-like voices. At last one more en- 
ergetic than the rest, in her white dress- 
ing-gown and with her hair hanging loose, 
flew down the long oak-panelled corridor 
and knocked with might and main at her 
brother’s door: “Walter! Walter! wake 

17 


up! do! You said it would rain, and it 
doesn’t rain ! It is a lovely morning ! 
Oh, Walter!” 

Walter responded briefly to the effect 
that he had been awake since half after 
three, and was aware of the fact. 

Henry Hardwicke, who had been to 
the river for an early swim, stopped to 
discuss the weather with a laborer who 
was plodding across the fields. The old 
man looked at the blue sky with an air 
of unutterable wisdom, made some pro- 
found remarks about the quarter in which 
the wind was, added a local saying or two 
bearing on the case, and summed up to 
the effect that it was a fine day. 

Captain Fothergill had no particular 
view from his window, but he inquired 
at an early hour what the weather was 
like. 

Ashendale Priory was a fine old ruin 
belonging to the Latimers, and about six 
miles from Latimer’s Court. Sissy Lang- 
ton had said one day that she often pass- 
ed it in her rides, but had never been 
into it. Walter Latimer was astonished, 
horrified and delighted all at once, and 
vowed that she must see it, and should 
see it without delay. This Wednesday 
had been fixed for an excursion there, 
but the project was nearly given up on 
account of the weather. As late as the 
previous afternoon the question was se- 
riously debated at the Court by. a coun- 
cil composed of Walter and three of his 
sisters. One of the members was sent 
to look at the barometer. She reported 
that it had gone up in the most extraor- 
dinary manner since luncheon. 

The announcement was greeted with 
delight, but it was discovered late that 
evening that Miss Latimer had had a 
happy thought. Fearing that the ba- 
rometer would be utterly ruined by the 
shaking and tapping which it underwent, 
she had screwed it up to a height at which 
her younger brothers and sisters could 
not wish to disturb it, had gone into the 
village, and had forgotten all about it. 
There was general dismay and much 
laughter. 

“It will rain,” said Walter: “it will 
certainly rain. I thought it was very 
queer. Well, it is too late to do any- 


258 


percival :^ 


thing now. We must just wait and see 
what happens.” 

And behold the morrow had come, 
the clouds were gone, and it was a day 
in a thousand, a very queen of days. 

The party started for Ashendale, some 
riding, some driving, waking the quiet 
green lanes with a happy tumult of 
wheels and horse -hoofs and laughing 
voices. Captain Fothergill contrived to 
be near Miss Langton, and to talk in a 
fashion which made her look down once 
or twice when she had encountered the 
eagerness of his dark eyes. The words 
he said might have been published by 
the town - crier. But that functionary 
could not have reproduced the tone and 
manner which rendered them significant, 
though Sissy hardly knew the precise 
amount of meaning they were intended 
to convey. She was glad when the tow- 
er of the priory rose above the trees. 
So was Walter Latimer, who had been 
eying the back of Fothergill’s head or 
the sharply-cut profile which was turned 
so frequently toward Miss Langton, and 
who was firmly persuaded that the cap- 
tain ought to be shot. 

Ashendale Priory was built nearly at 
the bottom of a hill. Part of it, close by 
the gateway, was a farmhouse occupied 
by a tenant of the Latimers. His wife, 
a pleasant middle-aged woman, came 
out to meet them as they dismounted, 
and a rosy daughter of sixteen or seven- 
teen lingered shyly in the little garden, 
which was full to overflowing of old-fash- 
ioned flowers and humming with multi- 
tudes of bees. The hot sweet fragrance 
of the crowded borders made Sissy say 
that it was like the very heart of sum- 
mer-time. 

‘‘A place to recollect and dream of on 
a November day,” said Fothergill. 

‘‘ Oh, don’t talk of November now ! I 
hate it.” 

” I don’t want November, I assure you,” 
he replied. “Why cannot this last for 
ever ?” 

‘‘The weather ?” 

‘‘Much more than the weather. Do 
you suppose I should only remember 
that it was a fine day?” 

‘‘ What, the place too ?” said Sissy. 


‘‘ It is beautiful, but I think you would \ 
soon get tired of Ashendale, Captain 
Fothergill.” 

‘‘Do you?” he said in a low voice, 
looking at her with the eyes which seem- 
ed to draw hers to meet them. ‘‘Try me 
land see which will be tired first.” And, 
without giving her time to answer, he 
went on ; ‘‘Couldn’t you be content with 
Ashendale ?” 

‘‘For always? I don’t think I could 
— not for all my life.” 

‘‘Well, then, the perfect place is yet to 
find,” said Fothergill. ‘‘And how charm- 
ing it must be !” 

‘‘ If one should ever find it !” said Sissy. 

‘‘ One ?” Fothergill looked at her again. 

, ‘‘ Not 0)16 ! Won’t you hope we may both 
find it ?” 

" Like the people who hunted for the 
Earthly Paradise,” said Sissy hurriedly. 

‘‘ Look ! they are going to the ruins.” 
And she hastened to join the others. 

Latimer noticed that she evidently, 
and very properly, would not permit 
Fothergill to monopolize her, but seem- 
ed rather to avoid the fellow. To his 
surprise, however, he found that there 
was no better fortune for himself. Foth- 
ergill had brought a sailor cousin, a boy 
of nineteen, curly-haired, sunburnt and 
merry, with a sailor’s delight in flirtation 
and fun, and Archibald Carroll fixed his 
violent though temporary affections on 
Sissy the moment he was introduced 
to her at the priory. To Latimer’s great 
disgust. Sissy distinctly encouraged him, 
and the two went off together during the 
progress round the ruins. There were 
some old fish-ponds to be seen, with 
swans and reeds and water-lilies, and 
when they were tired of scrambling about 
the gray walls there was a little copse 
hard by, the perfection of sylvan sce- 
nery on a small scale. The party speed- 
ily dispersed, rambling where their fan- 
cy led them, and were seen no more till 
the hour which had been fixed for din- 
ner. Mrs. Latimer meanwhile chose a 
space of level turf, superintended the 
unpacking of hampers, and when the 
wanderers came dropping in by twos 
and threes from all points of the com- ^ 
pass, professing unbounded readiness to 


^^FOR PERCIVALR 


259 


help in the preparations, there was noth- 
ing left for them to do. Among the latest 
were Sissy and her squire, a radiant pair. 
She was charmed with her saucy sailor- 
boy, who had no serious intentions dr 
hopes, who would most likely be gone 
on the morrow, and who asked nothing 
more than to be happy with her through 
that happy summer day. People and 
things were apt to grow perplexing and 
sad when they came into her every-day 
life, but here was a holiday companion, 
arrived as unexpectedly as if he were 
created for her holiday, with no such 
thing as an" afterthought about the whole 
affair. 

Latimer sulked, but his rival smiled, 
when the two young people arrived. 
For — thus argued Raymond Fothergill, 
with a vanity which was so calm, so clear, 
so certain that it sounded like reason it- 
self — it was not possible that Sissy Lang- 
ton preferred Carroll to himself. Even 
had it been Latimer or Hardwicke ! But 
Carroll — no ! Therefore she used the 
one cousin merely to avoid the other. 
But why did she wish to avoid him ? He 
remembered her blushes, her shyness, 
the eyes that sank before his own, and 
he answered promptly that she feared 
him. He triumphed in the thought. He 
had contended against a gentle indiffer- 
ence on Sissy’s part, till, having heard ru- 
mors of a bygone love-affair, he had sus- 
pected the existence of an unacknow- 
ledged constancy. Then what did this 
fear mean ? It was obviously the self- 
distrust of a heart unwilling to yield, 
clinging to its old loyalty, yet aware of 
a new weakness — seeking safety in flight 
because unable to resist. Fothergill was 
conscious of power, and could wait with 
patience. (It would have been unreason- 
able to expect him to spend an equal 
amount of time and talent in account- 
ing for Miss Langton’s equally evident 
avoidance of young Latimer. Besides, 
that was a simple matter. He bored 
her, no doubt.) 

When the business of eating and drink- 
ing was drawing to a close, little Edith 
Latimer, the youngest of the party, be- 
gan to arrange a lapful of wild flowers 
which she had brought back from her 


ramble. Hardwicke, who had helped 
her to collect them, handed them to her 
one by one. 

A green tuft which he held up caught 
Sissy’s eye. " Why, Edie, what have you 
got there ?” she said. “ Is that maiden- 
hair spleen wort ? Where did you find it ?” 

" In a crack in the wall : there’s a lot 
more,” the child answered ; and at the 
same moment Hardwicke said, “Shall I 
get you some T' 

“ No : I’ll get some,” exclaimed Archie, 
who was lying at Sissy’s feet. “ Miss 
Langton would rather I got it for her, I 
know.” 

Sissy arched her brows. 

“She has so much more confidence 
in me,” Archie explained. “Please give 
me a leaf of that stuff. Miss Latimer: I 
want to see what it’s like.” 

“My confidence is rather misplaced. 
I’m afraid, if you don’t know what you 
are going to look for.” 

“Not a bit misplaced. You know very 
well I shall have a sort of instinct which 
will take me straight to it.” 

“ Dear me ! It hasn’t any smell, you 
know,” said Sissy with perfect gravity. 

“ Oh, how cruel !” said Carroll, “ wither- 
ing up my delicate feelings with thought- 
less sarcasm ! Smell ? no ! My what- 
d’ye-call-it — sympathy — will tell me 
which it is. My heart will beat faster 
as I approach it. But I’ll have that leaf 
all the same, please.” 

“And it might be as well to know where 
to look for it.” 

“We found it in the ruins — in the wall 
of the refectory,” said Hardwicke. 

Sissy looked doubtful, but Carroll ex- 
claimed, “Oh, I know! That’s where 
the old fellows used to dine, isn’t it ? 
And had sermons read to them all the 
time.” 

“What a bore !” some one suggested. 

“Well, I don’t know about that,” said 
Archie. “ Sermons always are awful 
bores, ain’t they? But I don’t think I 
should mind ’em so much if I might eat 
my dinner all the time.” He stopped 
with a comical look of alarm. “ I say, we 
haven’t got any parsons here, have we ?” 

“ No,” said Fothergill smiling. “ We’ve 
brought the surgeon, in case of broken 


26 o 


^^FOR PERCIVALR 


bones, but we’ve left the chaplain at 
home. So you may give us the full 
benefit of your opinions.” 

‘‘I thought there wasn’t one,” Archie 
remarked, looking up at Sissy, “because 
nobody said grace. Or don’t you ever 
say grace at a picnic ?” 

“ I don’t think you do,” Sissy replied. 
“Unless it were a very Low Church pic- 
nic perhaps. 1 don’t know. I’m sure.” 

“ Makes a difference being out of doors, 
I suppose,” said Archie, examining the 
little frond which Edith had given him. 
“And this is what you call maiden-hair?” 

“ What should you call it ?” 

“A libel,” he answered promptly. 
“ Maiden - hair, indeed ! Why, I can 
see some a thousand times prettier quite 
close by. What can you want with this? 

You can’t seethe other, but I’ll tell you 
what it’s like. It’s the most beautiful 
brown, with gold in it, and it grows in 
little ripples and waves and curls, and 
nothing ever was half so fine before, 
and it catches just the edge of a ray of 
sunshine — oh, don’t move your head ! — 
and looks like a golden glory — ” 

“Dear me!” said Sissy. “Then I’m 
afraid it’s very rough.” 

“ — And the least bit of it is worth a 
cartload of this green rubbish.” 

“ Ah ! But you see it is very much 
harder to get.y 

“Of course it is,” said Archie. “But 
exchange is no robbery, they say. Sup- 
pose I go and dig up some of this, don’t 
you think — remembering that I am a poor 
sailor -boy, going to be banished from 
‘ England, home and beauty,’ and that 
I shall most likely be drowned on my 
next voyage — don’t you think — ” 

“ I think that, on your- own showing, 
you must get me at least a cartload of 
the other before you have the face to 
finish that sentence.” 

“ A cartload ! I feel like a prince in a 
fairy-tale. And what would you do with 
it all ?” 

“Well, I really hardly know what I 
should do with it.” 

“There now I” said Archie. “And I 
could tell you in a moment what I would 
do with mine if you gave it me.” 

“Oh, but I could tell you that.” 


“Tell me, then.” 

“You would fold it up carefully in a 
neat little bit of paper, but you would 
not write anything on it, because you 
would not like it to look business-like. 
Besides, you couldn’t possibly forget. 
And a few months hence you will have 
lost your heart to some foreign young 
lady — I don’t know where you are going 
— and you would find the little packet in 
your desk, and wonder who gave it to 
you.” 

“ Oh, how little you know me !” Archie 
exclaimed, and sank back on the turf in 
a despairing attitude. But a moment 
later he began to laugh, and sat up 
again. “There was a bit once,” he said 
confidentially, “and for the life of me I 
couldn’t think whose it could be. There 
were two or three girls I knew it couldn’t 
possibly belong to, but that didn’t help me 
very far. That lock of hair quite haunted 
me. See what it is to have such suscep- 
tible feelings 1 I used to look at it a dozen 
times a day, and I couldn’t sleep at night 
for thinking of it. At last I said to my- 
self, ‘ I don’t care whose it is ; she was a 
nice, dear girl anyhow, and I’m sure she 
wouldn’t like to think that she bothered 
me in this way.’ So I consigned it to a 
watery g^ave. I felt very melancholy 
when it went, I can tell you, and if my 
own hair had been a reasonable length 
I’d have sent a bit of it overboard with 
hers, just for company’s sake. But I’d 
had a fever, and I was cropped like a 
convict, so I couldn’t.” 

“You tell that little story very nicely,” 
said Sissy when he paused. “ Do you al- 
ways mention it when you ask — ” 

“Why, no,” Archie exclaimed. “I 
thought you would take it as it was 
meant — as the greatest possible com- 
pliment to yourself. But I suppose it’s 
my destiny to be misunderstood. Don’t 
you see that I cou^dn' t ieW that to any one 
unless I were quite sure that she was so 
much higher, so altogether apart, that 
she never, never could get mixed up 
with anybody else in my mind ?” 

“ She had better have some very par- 
ticular sort of curliness in her hair too,” 
said Sissy. “ Don’t you think it would be 
safer ?” 


'^FOR PERCIVALr 


261 


“Oh, this is too much!” he exclaimed. 1 
“ It’s sport to you, evidently, but you don’t 
consider that it’s death to me. I say, come 
away, and we’ll look for this green stuff.” | 
Fothergill smiled, but Latimer’s hand- j 
some face flushed. Hehadmadeadozen 
attempts to supplant Carroll, and had been 
foiled by the laughing pair. What was the 
use of being a good-looking fellow of six- 
and-twenty, head of one of the county 
families and owner of Latimer’s Court 
and Ashendale, if he were to be set 
aside by a beggarly sailor-boy ? What 
did Fothergill mean by bringing his poor 
relations dragging after him where they 
were not wanted ? He sprang to his feet,, 
and went away with long strides to make 
violent love to the farmer’s rosy little 
daughter. He knew that he meant 
nothing at all, and that he was filling 
the poor child’s head and heart with 
the vainest of hopes. He knew that he 
owed especial respect and consideration 
to the daughter of his tenant, a man who 
had dealt faithfully by him, and whose 
father and grandfather had held Ash- 
endale under the Latimers. He felt that 
he was acting meanly even while he kiss- 
ed little Lucy by the red wall where the 
apricots were ripening in the sun. And 
he had no overmastering passion for ex- 
cuse : what did he care for little Lucy ? 
He was doing wrong, and he was doing 
it because it was wrong. He was in a 
fiercely antagonistic mood, and, as he 
could not fight Fothergill and Carroll, 
he fought with his own sense of truth 
and honor, for want of a better foe. 
And Lucy, conscious of her rosy pret- 
tiness, stood shyly pulling the lavender- 
heads in a glad bewilderment of vanity, 
wonder and delight, while Latimer’s heart 
was full of jealous anger. If Sissy Lang- 
ton could amuse herself, so could he. 

But Sissy was too happily absorbed in 
her amusement to think of his. She had 
avoided him, as she had avoided Captain 
Fothergill, from a sense of danger. They 
were becoming too serious, too much in 
earnest, and she did not want to be serious. 
So she went gayly across the grass, laugh- 
ing at Archie because he would look on 
level ground for her maiden-hair spleen- 
wort. They came to a small enclosure. 


I “Here you are!” said Carroll. “This 
is what somebody said was the refectory. 
It makes one feel quite sad and senti- 
I mental only to think what a lot of jolly 
j dinners have been eaten here. And 
nothing left of it all!” 

“That’s your idea of sentiment, Mr. 
Carroll ? It sounds to me as if you had- 
n’t had enough to eat.” 

“ Oh yes, I had plenty. But we ought 
to pledge each other in a cup of sack, or 
something of the kind. And a place like 
this ought at least to smell deliciously of 
roast and boiled. Instead of which it 
might as well be the chapel.” 

Sissy gazed up at the wall : “ There’s 
some maiden-hair! How was it I never 
saw it this morning? Surely, we came 
along the top and looked down into this 
place.” 

“ No,” said Archie. “ That was the 
chapel we looked into. Didn’t I say 
they were just alike?” 

“Well, I can easily get up there,” she 
said. “ And you may stay down here if 
you like, and grow sentimental over the 
ghost of a dinner.” And, laughing, she 
darted up a steep ascent of turf, slacken- 
ing her pace when she came to a rough 
heap of fallen stones. Carroll was by 
her side directly, helping her. “Why, 
this is prettier than where we went this 
morning,” she said when they reached 
the top : “ you see the whole place bet- 
ter. But it’s narrower, I think. This 
is the west wall, isn’t it ? Oh, Mr. Car- 
roll, how much the sun has gone down 
already !” 

“I wish I were Moses, or whoever it 
was, to make it stop,” said the boy: “it 
would stay up there a good long time.” 

There was a black belt of shadow at 
the foot of the wall. Archie looked 
down as if to measure its breadth. A 
little tuft of green caught his eye, and 
stooping he pulled it from between the 
stones. 

“ Oh, how broken it is here ! Doesn’t 
it look as if a giant had taken a great 
bite out of it?” Sissy exclaimed, at the 
same moment that he called after her, 
“ Is this right. Miss Langton ?” 

She turned her head, and for a sec- 
ond’s space he saw her bright face, her 


262 


'^FOR PERCIVALF 


laughing, parted lips. Then there was 
a terrible cry, stretched hands at which 
he snatched instinctively but in vain, 
and a stone which slipped and fell heav- 
ily. He stumbled forward, and recover- 
ed himself with an effort. There was blank 
space before him — and what below? 

Archie Carroll half scrambled down 
by the help of the ivy, half slid, and 
reached the ground. Thus, at the risk 
of his life, he gained half a minute, and 
spent it in kneeling on the grass — a yard 
away from that which he dared not touch 
— saying pitifully, " Miss Langton ! Oh, 
won’t you speak to me. Miss Langton ?” 

He was in the shadow, but looking 
across the enclosure he faced a broken 
doorway in the south-east corner. The 
ground sloped away a little, and the arch 
opened into the stainless blue. A sound 
of footsteps made Carroll look up, and 
through the archway came Raymond 
Fothergill. He had heard the cry, he 
had outrun the rest, and, even in his 
blank bewilderment of horror, Archie 
shrank back scared at his cousin’s as- 
pect. His brows and moustache were 
black as night against the unnatural 
whiteness of his face, which was like 
bleached wax. His eyes were terrible. 
He seemed to reach the spot in an 
instant. Carroll saw his hands on the 
stone which had fallen, and lay on her — 
O God ! — or only on her dress ? 

Fothergill’s features contracted in sud- 
den agony as he noted the horribly twist- 
ed position in which she lay, but he stoop- 
ed without a moment’s hesitation, and, 
lifting her gently, laid her on the turf, 
resting her head upon his knee. There 
was a strange contrast between the ten- 
derness with which he supported her 
and the fierce anger of his face. Others 
of the party came rushing on the scene 
in dismay and horror. 

“Water!” said Fothergill. “Where’s 
Anderson ?” (Anderson was the young 
doctor.) “Not here?” 

“ He went by the fish-ponds with Ev- 
elyn,” cried Edith suddenly: “I saw 
him.” Hardwicke darted off. 

“ Curse him ! Playing the fool when 
he’s wanted more than he ever will be 
again. — Mrs. Latimer!” 


Edith rushed away to find her mother. 

Some one brought water, and held it 
while Fothergill, with his disengaged 
hand, sprinkled the white face on his 
knee. 

Walter Latimer hurried round the cor- 
ner. He held a pink rosebud, on which 
his fingers tightened unconsciously as he 
ran. Coming to the staring group, he 
stopped aghast. “ Good God !” he pant- 
ed, “what has happened ?” 

Fothergill dashed more water on the 
shut eyes and bright hair. 

Latimer looked from him to the others 
standing round : “ What has happened ?” 

• A hoarse voice spoke from the back- 
ground: “She fell.” Archie Carroll had 
risen from his knees, and, lifting one hand 
above his head, he pointed to the wall. 
Suddenly, he met Fothergill’s eyes, and 
with a half-smothered cry he flung him- 
self all along upon the grass and hid his 
face. 

“Fothergill ! is she much hurt?” cried 
Latimer. “ Is it serious?” 

The other did not look up. “I can- 
not tell,” he said, “but I believe she is 
killed.” 

Latimer uttered a cry : “ No ! no ! For 
God’s sake don’t say that! It can’t 
be !” 

Fothergill made no answer. 

“ It isn’t possible !” said Walter. But 
his glance measured the height of the 
wall and rested on the stones scattered 
thickly below. The words died on his 
lips. 

“ Is Anderson never coming ?” said 
some one else. Another messenger hur- 
ried off. Latimer stood as if rooted to 
the ground, gazing after him. All at 
once he noticed the rose which he still 
held, and jerked it away with a move- 
ment as of horror. 

The last runner returned : “Anderson 
and Hardwicke will be here directly : I 
saw them coming up the path from the 
fish-ponds. Here is Mrs. Latimer.” 

Edith ran through the archway first, 
eager and breathless. “ Here is mam- 
ma,” she said, going straight to Ray- 
mond Fothergill with her tidings, and 
speaking softly as if Sissy were asleep. 
A little nod was his only answer, and 


fothergill! is she much hurt?” — Page 262. 


'^FOR PERCIVALR 


263 


the girl stood gazing with frightened I supported. Mrs. Latimer, Hardwicke 
eyes at the drooping head which he | and Anderson all arrived together, and 



the group divided to make way for them. 
The first thing to be done was to carry 


Sissy to the farmhouse, and while they 
were arranging this Edith felt two hands 


264 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


pressed lightly on her shoulders. She 
turned and confronted Harry Hard- 
wicke. 

" Hush!” he said: ‘‘do not disturb them 
now, but when they have taken her to 
the house, if you hear anything said, tell 
them that I have gone for Dr. Grey, and 
as soon as I have sent him here I shall 
go on for Mrs. Middleton. You under- 
stand ?” he added, for the child was look- 
ing at him with her scared eyes, and had 
not spoken. 

“Yes,” she said, ‘‘I will tell them. 
Oh, Harry 1 will she die ?” 

‘‘Not if anything you and I can do 
will save her — will she, Edith?” and 
Hardwicke ran off to the stables for his 
horse. A man was there who saddled it 
for him, and a rough farm-boy stood by 
and saw how the gentleman, while he 
waited, stroked the next one — a lady’s 
horse, a chestnut — and how presently 
he turned his face away and laid his 
cheek for a moment against the chest- 
nut’s neck. The boy thought it was a 
rum go, and stood staring vacantly while 
Hardwicke galloped off on his terrible 
errand. 

Meanwhile, they were carrying Sissy 
to the house. Fothergill was helping, 
of course. Latimer had stood by irres- 
olutely, half afraid, yet secretly hoping 
for a word which would call him. But 
no one heeded him. Evelyn and Edith 
had hurried on to see that there was a 
bed on which she could be laid, and the 
sad little procession followed them at a 
short distance. The lookers-on strag- 
gled after it, an anxiously -whispering 
group, and as the last passed through 
the ruined doorway Archie Carroll lift- 
ed his head and glanced round. The 
wall, with its mosses and ivy, rose dark- 
ly above him — too terrible a presence to 
be faced alone. He sprang up, hurried 
out of the black belt of shadow and fled 
across the turf. He never looked back 
till he stood under the arch, but halting 
there, within sight of his companions, he 
clasped a projection with one hand as 
if he were giddy, and turning his head 
gazed intently at the crest of the wall. 
Every broken edge, every tuft of feath- 
ery grass, every aspiring ivy-spray, stood 


sharply out against the sunny blue. The 
breeze had gone down, and neither blade 
nor leaf stirred in the hot stillness of the 
air. There was the way by which they 
had gone up, there was the ruinous gap 
which Sissy had said was like a giant’s 
bite. Archie’s grasp tightened on the 
stone as he looked. He might well feel 
stunned and dizzy, gazing thus across 
the hideous gulf which parted him from 
the moment when he stood upon the wall 
with Sissy Langton laughing by his side. 
Not till every detail was cruelly stamped 
upon his brain did he leave the spot. 

By that time they had carried Sissy in. 
Little Lucy had been close by, her rosy 
face blanched with horror, and had look- 
ed appealingly at Latimer as he went 
past. She wanted a kind word or glance, 
but the innocent confiding look filled him 
with remorse and disgust. He would not 
meet it : he stared straight before him. 
Lucy was overcome by conflicting emo- 
tions, went off into hysterics, and her 
mother had to be called away from the 
room where she was helping Mrs. Lati- 
mer. Walter felt as if he could have 
strangled the pretty, foolish child to 
whom he had been saying sweet things 
not half an hour before. The rose that 
he had gathered for her was fastened in 
her dress, and the pink bud that she had 
given him lay in its first freshness on the 
turf in the ruins. 

Some of the party waited in the gar- 
den. Fothergill stood in the shadow of 
the porch, silent and a little apart. Ar- 
chie Carroll came up the path, but no 
one spoke to him, and he went straight 
to his cousin. Leaning against the wood- 
work, he opened his lips to speak, but 
was obliged to stop and clear his throat, 
for the words would not come. ‘‘ How is 
she ?” he said at last. 

‘‘ I don’t know.” 

‘‘Why do you look at me like that?” 
said the boy desperately. 

Fothergill slightly changed his posi- 
tion, and the light fell more strongly on 
his face. ‘‘ I don’t ever want to look at 
you again,” he said with quiet empha- 
sis. ‘‘You’ve done mischief enough to 
last your lifetime if you lived a thousand 
years.” 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


265 


" It wasn’t my fault ! Ray, it wasn’t !” 

“Whose, then?’’ said Fothergill. “Pos- 
sibly you think it would have happened 
if I had been there ?’’ 

“They said that wall — ’’ the young fel- 
low began. 

“They didn’t. No one told you to 
climb the most ruinous bit of the whole 
place. And she didn’t even know where 
the refectory was.’’ 

Carroll groaned : “ Don’t, Ray : I can’t 
bear it! I shall kill myself!’’ 

“No, you won’t,’’ said Fothergill. 
“You’ll go safe home to your people 
at the rectory. No more of this.’’ 

Archie hesitated, and then miserably 
dragged himself away. Fothergill re- 
treated a little farther into the porch, 
and was almost lost in the shadow. No 
tidings, good or evil, had come from the 
inner room where Sissy lay, but his state 
of mind was rather despairing than anx- 
ious. From the moment when he ran 
across the grass and saw her lying, a 
senseless heap, at the foot of the wall, 
he had felt assured that she was fatally 
injured. If he hoped at all it was an 
unconscious hope — a hope of which he 
never would be conscious until a cruel 
certainty killed it. 

His dominant feeling was anger. He 
had cared for this girl — cared for her so 
much that he had been astonished at him- 
self for so caring — and he felt that this 
love was the crown of his life. He did 
not for a moment doubt that he would 
have w^on her. He had triumphed in 
anticipation, but Death had stepped be- 
tween them and baffled him, and now it 
was all over. Fothergill was as furious 
with Death as if it had been a rival who 
robbed him. He felt himself the sport 
of a power to which he could offer no 
resistance, and the sense of helplessness 
was maddening. But his fury was of 
the white, intense, close -lipped kind. 
Though he had flung a bitter word or 
two at Archie, his quarrel was with Des- 
tiny. No matter who had decreed this 
thing, Raymond Fothergill was in fierce 
revolt. 

And yet, through it all, he knew per- 
fectly well that Sissy’s death would hard- 
ly make any outward change in him. He 


was robbed of his best chance, but he did 
not pretend to himself that his heart was 
broken or that his life was over. Walter 
Latimer might fancy that kind of thing, 
but Fothergill knew that he should be 
much such a man as he had been be- 
fore he met her, only somewhat lower, 
because he had so nearly been some- 
thing higher and missed it. That was 
all. 

Mrs. Latimer came for a few moments 
out of the hushed mystery of that inner 
room. The tidings ran through the ex- 
pectant groups that Sissy had moved 
slightly, and had opened her eyes once, 
but there was little hopefulness in the 
news. She was terribly injured : that 
much was certain, but nothing more. 
Mrs. Latimer wanted her son. “Wal- 
ter,’’ she said, “you must go home and 
take the girls. Indeed you must. They 
cannot stay here, and I cannot send them 
back without you.’’ Latimer refused, pro- 
tested, yielded. “Mother,’’ he said, as 
he turned to go, “you don’t know — ’’ 
His voice suddenly gave way. 

“ I do know. Oh, my poor boy !’’ She 
passed quickly to where Evelyn stood, 
and told her that Walter had gone to 
order the horses. “ I would rather you 
were all away before Mrs. Middleton 
comes,’’ she said : “ Henry Hardwicke 
has gone for her.’’ 

This departure was a signal to the rest. 
The groups melted away, and with sad 
farewells to one another, and awestruck 
glances at the windows of the farmhouse, 
almost all the guests departed. The sound 
of wheels and horse-hoofs died away in 
the lanes, and all was very still. The 
bees hummed busily round the white 
lilies and the lavender, and on the warm 
turf of one of the narrow paths lay Archie 
Carroll. 

He had a weight on heart and brain. 
There had been a moment all blue and 
sunny, the last of his happy life, when 
Sissy’s laughing face looked back at him 
and he was a light-hearted-boy. Then 
had com6 a moment of horror and in- 
credulous despair, and that black moment 
had hardened into eternity. Nightmare 
is hideous, and Archie’s very life had be- 
come a nightmare. Of course he would 


266 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


get over it, like his cousin, though, unlike i 
his cousin, he did not think so ; and their 
different moods had their different bitter- 
nesses. In days to come Carroll would 
enjoy his life once more, would be ready 
for a joke or an adventure, would dance 
the night through, would fall in love. 
This misery was a swift and terrible en- 
trance into manhood, for he could never 
be a boy again. And the scar would be 
left, though the wound would assuredly , 
heal. But Archie, stumbling blindly 
through that awful pass, never thought 
that he should come again to the light 
of day : it was to him as the black- 
ness of a hopeless hell. 


CHAPTER L. 

THROUGH THE NIGHT. 

The village-clock struck five. As the 
last lingering stroke died upon the air 
there was the sound of a carriage rapid- 
ly approaching. Carroll raised his head 
when it stopped at the gate, and saw 
Hardwicke spring out and help a lady 
to alight. She was an old lady, who 
walked quickly to the house, looking 
neither to right nor left, and vanished 
within the doorway. Hardwicke stop- 
ped, as if to give some order to the driver, 
and then hurried after her. Archie stared 
vaguely, first at them, and then at the 
man, who turned his horses and went 
round to the stables. When they were 
out of sight he laid his head down again. 
The little scene had been a vivid picture 
which stamped itself with curious distinct- 
ness on his brain,. yet failed to convey 
any meaning whatever. He had not 
the faintest idea of the agony of love 
and fear in Mrs. Middleton’s heart as 
she passed him. To Archie, just then, 
the whole universe was his agony, ‘and 
there was no room for more. 

Ten minutes later came Dr. Grey’s 
brougham. The doctor, as he jumped 
out, told his man to wait. He went from 
the gate to the house more hurriedly than 
Mrs. Middleton, and his anxiety was more 
marked, but he found time to look round 
as he w'ent with keen eyes, which rested 
for an instant on the young sailor, though 


he lay half hidden by the bushes. He too 
vanished, as the others had vanished. 

About^n hour later he came out again, 
and Fothergill followed him. The doctor 
started when he encountered his eager 
eyes. Fothergill demanded his opinion. 
He began some of the usual speeches in 
which men wrap up the ghastly word 
“death” in such disguise that it can 
hardly be recognized. 

The soldier cut him short : “ Please to 
speak plain English, Dr. Grey.” 

The doctor admitted the very greatest 
danger. 

“Danger — yes,” said Fothergill, “but 
is there any hope ? I am not a fool — 
I sha’n’t go in and scare the women : 
is there any hope ?” 

The answer was written on the doc- 
tor’s face. He had known Sissy Lang- 
ton from the time when she came, a 
tiny child, to Brackenhill. He shook 
his head, and murmured something 
about “ even if there were no other 
injury, the spine — ” 

Fothergill caught a glimpse of a hid- 
eous possibility, and answered with an 
oath. It was not the profanity of the 
words, so much as the fury with which 
they were charged, that horrified the 
good old doctor. “My dear sir,” he 
remonstrated gently, “we must remem- 
ber that this is God’s will.” 

“ God’s will ! God’s will ! Are you sure 
it isn’t the devil’s ?” said Fothergill. “It 
seems more like it. If you think it is 
God’s will, you may persuade yourself 
it’s yours, for aught I know. But I’m 
not such a damned hypocrite as to make 
believe it’s mine.” 

And with a mechanical politeness, 
curiously at variance with his face and 
speech, he lifted his hat to the doctor 
as he turned back to the farmhouse. 

So Sissy’s doom was spoken — to linger 
a few hours, more or less, in helpless pain, 
and then to die. The sun, which had 
dawned so joyously, was going down 
as serenely as it had dawned, but it did 
not matter much to Sissy now. Sh6 
was sensible, she knew Mrs. Middleton. 
When the old lady stooped over her 
she looked up, smiled faintly and said, 
“ I- fell.” 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


“Yes, my darling, I know,” Aunt 
Harriet said. 

“Can I go home?” Sissy asked after 
a pause. 

“No, dear, you must not think of it: 
you mustn’t ask to go home.” 

“ I thought not,” said Sissy. 

Mrs. Middleton asked her if she felt 
much pain. 

“I don’t know,” she said, and closed 
her eyes. 

Later, Henry Hardvvicke sent in a 
message, and the old lady came out to 
speak to him. He was standing by an 
open casement in the passage, looking 
out at the sunset through the orchard 
boughs. “What is it, Harry?” she said. 

He started and turned round : “ I 
beg your pardon, Mrs. Middleton, but I 
thought in case you wanted to send any 
telegrams — if — if — I mean I thought 
you might want to send some, and there 
is not very much time.” 

She put her hand to her head. “I 
ought to, oughtn’t I ?” she said. “Who 
should be sent for?” 

“Mr. Hammond?” Hardwicke ques- 
tioned doubtfully. 

Something like relief or pleasure light- 
ed her sad eyes : “ Yes, yes ! send for 
Godfrey Hammond. He will come.” 
She was about to leave him, but the 
young fellow stepped forward : “ Mrs. 
Middleton ” — was it the clear red light 
from the window that suddenly flushed 
his face ? — “ Mrs. Middleton, shall I send 
for Mr. Percival Thorne ?” 

. She stopped, looking strangely at him : 
something in his voice surprised her. 
“For Percival?” she said. 

“ May I ? I think he ought to come.” 
The hot color was burning on his cheeks. 
What right had he to betray the secret 
which he believed he had discovered? 
And yet could he stand by and not speak 
for her when she had so little time in 
which to speak for herself? 

“ Is it for his sake,” said Mrs. Middle- 
ton, “or is it that you think — ? Well, 
let it be so : send for Percival. Yes,” she 
added, “perhaps I have misunderstood. 
Yes, send at once for Percival.” 

“Pll go,” said Harry, hurrying down 
the passage. “The message shall be 


267 

sent off at once. I’ll take it to Ford- 
borough.” 

“Must you go yourself?” Mrs. Mid- 
dleton raised her voice a little as he 
moved away. 

“No: let me go,” said Captain Foth- 
ergill, turning the farther corner : “ I am 
going to Fordborough. What is it? I 
will take it. Mrs. Middleton, you will 
let me be your messenger?” 

“ You are very good,” she said. — “ Har- 
ry, you will write — I can’t. Oh, I must 
go back.” And she vanished, leaving 
the two men face to face. 

“I’ve no telegraph-forms,” said Har- 
ry after a pause. “ If you would take the 
paper to my father, he will send the mes- 
sages.” 

Fothergill nodded silently, and went 
out to make ready for his journey. 
Hardwicke followed him, and stood in 
the porch pencilling on the back of an 
old letter. When Fothergill had given 
his orders he walked up to Carroll, touch- 
ed the lad’s shoulder with the tips of his 
fingers, and stood away. “Come,” he 
said. 

Archie raised himself from the ground 
and stumbled to his feet : “ Come ? 
where ?” 

“To Fordborough.” 

The boy started and stepped back. 
He looked at the farmhouse, he looked 
at his cousin. “I’ll come afterward,” he 
faltered. 

“Nonsense!” said Fothergill. “I’m 
going now, and of course you go with 
me.” 

Archie shrank away, keeping his eyes 
^ fixed, as if in a kind of fascination, on 
his cousin’s terrible eyes. The idea of 
going back alone with Raymond was 
awful to him. “No, I can’t come, Ray 
— indeed I can’t,” he said. “I’ll walk: 
I’d ’much rather — I would indeed.” 

“What for?” said Fothergill. “You 
are doing no good here. Do you know 
I have a message to take ? I can’t be 
kept waiting. Don’t be a fool,” he said 
in a lower but not less imperative voice. 

Archie glanced despairingly round. 
Hardwicke came forward with the pa- 
per in his outstretched hand : “ Leave 
him here, Captain Fothergill. I dare 


268 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


say I shall go to the inn in the village, 
and he may go with me. He can take 
you the earliest news to-morrow morn- 
ing.” 

Archie looked breathlessly from one 
to the other. “As you please,” said 
Fothergill, and strode off without an- 
other word. 

The boy tried to say something in the 
way of thanks. "Oh, it’s nothing,” 
Hardwicke replied. “You won’t care 
what sort of quarters they may turn out 
to be, I know.” And he went back to 
the house with a little shrug of his shoul- 
ders at the idea of having young Carroll 
tied to him in this fashion. He did not 
want the boy, but Hardwicke could nev- 
er help sacrificing himself. 

So Archie went to the gate and watch- 
ed his cousin ride away, a slim black fig- 
ure on his black horse against the burn- 
ing sky. Fothergill never turned his 
head. Where was the use of looking 
back ? He was intent only on his er- 
rand, and when that piece of paper 
should have been delivered into Mr. 
Hardwicke’s hands the last link be- 
tween Sissy Langton and himself would 
be broken. There would be no further 
service to render. Fothergill did not 
know that the message he carried was 
to summon his rival, but it would have 
made no difference in his feelings if he 
had. Nothing made any difference now. 

Mrs. Middleton sat by Sissy’s bedside 
in the clear evening light. Harry Hard- 
wicke’s words haunted her : why did he 
think that Sissy wanted Percival ? They 
had parted a year ago, and she had be- 
lieved that Sissy was cured of her liking 
for him. It was Sissy who had sent him 
away, and she had been brighter and 
gayer of late : indeed, Mrs. Middleton 
had fancied that Walter Latimer — Well, 
that was over, but if Sissy cared for Per- 
cival — 

A pair of widely-opened eyes were fix- 
ed on her: “Am I going to die. Aunt 
Harriet ?” 

“ I hope not. Oh, my darling, I pray 
that you may live.” 

“ I think I am going to die. Will it 
be very soon ? Would there be time to 
send — ” 


“We will send for anything or any 
one you want. Do you feel worse, dear ? 
Time to send for whom ?” 

“ For Percival.” 

“ Harry Hardwicke has sent for him 
already. Perhaps he has the message 
by now : it is an hour and a half since 
the messenger went.” 

“When will he come?” 

“To-morrow, darling.” 

There was a pause. Then the faint 
voice came again: “What time?” 

Mrs. Middleton went to the door and 
called softly to Hardwicke. He had been 
looking in Bradshaw, and she returned 
directly : “ Percival will come by the 
express to-night. He will be at Ford- 
borough by the quarter-past nine train, 
and Harry will meet him and bring 
him over at once — by ten o’clock, he 
says, or a few minutes later.” 

Sissy’s brows contracted for a mo- 
ment : she was calculating the time. 
“What is it now?” she said. 

“Twenty minutes to eight.” 

Fourteen hours and a half ! The whole 
night between herself and Percival ! The 
darkness must come and must go, the sun 
must set and must again be high in the 
heavens, before he could stand by her 
side. It seemed to Sissy as if she were 
going down into the blackness of an 
awful gulf, where Death was waiting for 
her. Would she have strength to escape 
him, to toil up the farther side, and to 
reach the far-off to-morrow and Perci- 
val? “Aunt Harriet,” she said, “shall 
I live till then ? I want to speak to 
him.” 

“Yes, my darling — indeed you will. 
Don’t talk so : you will break my heart. 
Perhaps God will spare you.” 

“No,” said Sissy — “no.” 

Between eightand nine Hardwickewas 
summoned again. Mrs. Latimer wanted 
some one to go to Latimer’s Court, to take 
the latest news and to say that it was 
impossible she could return that night. 
“You see they went away before Dr. 
Grey came,” she said. “ I have written 
a little note. Can you find me a mes- 
senger ?” 

“ I will either find one or I will go my- 
self,” he replied. 


PERCIVALF 


269 


“Oh, I didn’t mean to trouble you. 
And wait a moment, for Mrs. Middle- 
ton wants him to go on to her house. 
She will come and speak to you when 
I go back to the poor girl.’’ 

" How is Miss Langton ?’’ 

“ I hardly know. I think she is wan- 
dering a little ; she talked just now about 
some embroidery she has been doing — 
asked for it, in fact.’’ 

“ When Dr. Grey was obliged to go he 
didn’t think there would be any change 
before he came back, surely ?’’ said Hard- 
wicke anxiously. 

“No. But she can’t know what she 
is saying, can she ? Poor girl ! she will 
never do another stitch.’’ Mrs. Latimer 
fairly broke down. The unfinished em- 
broidery which never could be finished 
brought the truth home to her. It is 
hard to realize that a life with its inter- 
lacing roots and fibres is broken off 
short. 

“Oh, Mrs. Latimer, don’t! don’t!’’ Har- 
ry exclaimed, aghast at her tears. “For 
dear Mrs. Middleton’s sake !’’ He rushed 
away, and returned with wine. “ If you 
give way what will become of us ?’’ 

She was better in a few minutes, and 
able to go back, while Harry waited in 
quiet confidence for Mrs. Middleton. He 
was not afraid of a burst of helpless weep- 
ing when she came. She was gentle, yield- 
ing, delicate, but there was something of 
the old squire’s obstinacy in her, and in a 
supreme emergency it came out as firm- 
ness. She looked old and frail as she 
stepped into the passage and closed the 
door after her. Her hand shook, but her 
eyes met his bravely and her lips were 
firm. 

“You’ll have some wine too,’’ he said, 
pouring it out as a matter of course. “You 
can drink it while you tell me what I am 
to do.’’ 

She took the glass with a slight incli- 
nation of her head, and explained that 
she wanted an old servant who had been 
Sissy’s nurse when she was a little child. 
“Mrs. Latimer is very kind,’’ she said, 
“but Sissy will like her own people best. 
And Sarah would be broken-hearted — ’’ 
She paused. “Here is a list of things 
that I wish her to bring.’’ 


“Mrs. Latimer thought Miss Langton 
was not quite herself,’’ he said inquir- 
ingly. 

“ Do you mean because she talked of 
her work ? Oh, I don’t think so. She 
answers quite sensibly — indeed, she 
speaks quite clearly. That was the 
only thing.’’ 

“Then is it down in the list, this needle- 
work ? Or where is it to be found ?’’ 

“ You will bring it ?’’ said Mrs. Middle- 
ton. “ Well, perhaps — ’’ 

“ If she should ask again,’’ he said. 

“True. Yes, yes, bring it.’’ She told 
him where to find the little case. “ The 
fancy may haunt her. How am I to 
thank you, Harry ?’’ 

“Not at all,’’ he said. ‘iOnly let me 
do what I can.’’ 

It was nearly eleven before Hardwicke 
had accomplished his double errand and 
returned with Sarah. The stars were out, 
the ruins of the priory rose in great black 
masses against the sky, the farmhouse 
windows beneath the overhanging eaves 
were like bright eyes gazing out into the 
night. Dr. Grey had come back in the 
interval, and had seen his patient. There 
was nothing new to say, and nothing to 
be done, except to make the path to the 
grave as little painful as might be. He 
was taking a nap in Mr. Greenwell’s 
arm-chair when the young man came 
in, but woke up clear and alert in a mo- 
ment. “Ah, you have come?’’ he said, 
recognizing the old servant. “That’s 
well : you’ll save your mistress a little. 
Only, mind, we mustn’t have any cry- 
ing. If there is anything of that sort 
you will do more harm than good.’’ 

Sarah deigned no reply, but passed on. 
Mrs. Middleton came out to meet them. 
Sissy had not spoken. She lay with her 
eyes shut, and moaned now and then. 
“Are you going home, Harry?’’ said 
the old lady. 

“ Only into the village : I’ve got a room 
at the Latimer Arms. It isn’t two minutes’ 
walk from here, so I can be fetched di- 
rectly if I’m wanted.’’ 

“And you will be sure to meet the 
train ?’’ 

“I will; you may depend upon me. 
But I shall come here first.’’ 


270 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


“Good-night, then. Go and get some 
rest.” 

Hardwicke went off to look for Archie 
Carroll. He found him in the square flag- 
ged hall, sitting on the corner of a win- 
dow-seat, with his head leaning against 
the frame, among Mrs. Greenwell’s ge- 
raniums. “Come along, old fellow,” said 
Harry. 

There was only a glimmering candle, 
and the hall was very dim. Archie got 
up submissively and groped his way after 
his guide. “Where are we going?” he 
asked as the door was opened. 

“To a little public -house close by. 
We couldn’t ask the Greenwells to take 
us in.” 

As they -yent out into the road the 
priory rose up suddenly on the left and 
towered awfully above them. Carroll 
shuddered, drew closer to his compan- 
ion and kept his eyes fixed on the 
ground. “ I feel as if I were the ghost 
of myself, and those were the ghosts of 
the ruins,” he said as he hurried past. 

The flight of fancy was altogether be- 
yond Hardwicke: “You’ve been sitting 
alone and thinking. There has been 
nothing for you to do, and I couldn’t 
help leaving you. Here we are.” 

They turned into the little sanded 
parlor of the ale-house. Hardwicke 
had looked in previously and given his 
orders, and supper was laid ready for 
them. He sat down and began to help 
himself, but Archie at first refused to 
eat. 

“Nonsense!” said Harry. “You have 
had nothing since the beginning of the 
day. We must not break down, any of 
us.” And with a little persuasion he pre- 
vailed, and saw the lad make a tolerable 
supper and drink some brandy and water 
afterward. “Vile brandy!” said Hard- 
wicke as he set his tumbler down. Ar- 
chie was leaning with both elbows on 
the table, gazing at him. His eyes were 
heavy and swollen, and there were pur- 
ple shadows below them. 

“Mr. Hardwicke,” he said, “you’ve 
been very good to me. Do you think 
it was my fault?” 

“ Do I think what was your fault ?” 

"This !" Archie said — “to-day.” 


“ No — not if I understand it.” 

“Ray said if he had been there — ” 

“ I wish he had been. But we must 
not expect old heads on young shoul- 
ders. How did it happen ?” 

“We climbed up on the wall, and she 
was saying how narrow and broken it 
was, and I picked some of that stuff and 
called to her, and as she looked back — ” 

Hardwicke groaned. “ It was madly 
imprudent,” he said. “But I don’t blame 
you. You didn’t think. Poor fellow! 
I only hope you won’t think too much 
in future. Come, it’s time for bed.” 

“ I don’t want to sleep,” Archie an- 
swered : “I can’t sleep.” 

“Very well,” said Hardwicke. “But 
I must try and get a little rest. They 
had only one room for us, so if you can’t 
sleep you’ll keep quiet and let a fellow 
see what he can do in that line. And 
you may call me in the morning if I 
don’t wake. But don’t worry yourself, 
for I shall.” 

“What time?” said Carroll. 

“ Oh, from five to six — not later than 
six.” 

But in half an hour it was Carroll who 
lay worn out and sleeping soundly, and 
Hardwicke who was counting the slow 
minutes of that intolerable night. 

Sarah had been indignant that Dr. 
Grey should tell her not to cry. But 
when Sissy looked up with a gentle smile 
of recognition, and instead of calling her 
by her name said “ Nurse,” as she used 
to say in old times, the good woman was 
very near it indeed, and was obliged to 
go away to the window to try to swallow 
the lump that rose up in her throat and 
almost choked her. 

Mrs. Middleton sat by her darling’s 
bedside. She had placed the little work- 
case in full view, and presently Sissy 
noticed it and would have it opened. 
The half - finished strip of embroidery 
was laid within easy reach of hand and 
eye. She smiled, but was not satisfied. 
“The case,” she said. Her fingers stray- 
ed feebly among the little odds and ends 
which it contained, and closed over some- 
thing which she kept. 

Then there was a long silence, unbro- 
ken till Sissy was thirsty and wanted 


*^FOR PERCIVALF' 


271 


something to drink. “ What time?” she 
said when she had finished. 

" Half-past twelve.” 

” It’s very dark.” 

‘‘We will have another candle,” said 
Aunt Harriet. 

‘‘No: the candle only makes me see 
how dark it is all round.” 

Again there was silence, but not so 
long this time. And again Sissy broke 
it: "Aunt Harriet, he is coming now.” 

‘‘Yes, darling, he is coming.” 

‘‘ I feel as if I saw the train, with 
red lights in front, coming through 
the night — always coming, but never 
any nearer.” 

” But it is nearer every minute. Per- 
cival is nearer now than when you 
spoke.” 

Sissy said “Yes,” and was quiet again 
till between one and two. Then Mrs. 
Middleton perceived that her eyes were 
open. ‘‘What is it, dear child?” she 
said. 

‘‘The night is so long!” 

“Sissy,” said Aunt Harriet softly, “I 
want you to listen to me. A year ago, 
when Godfrey died and I talked about 
the money that I hoped to leave you one 
day, you told me what you should like 
me to do with it instead, because you 
had enough and you thought it was not 
fair. I didn’t quite understand then, 
I and I would not promise. Do you re- 
I member?” 

I “Yes.” 

“Sissy, shall I promise now? I’ve 
been thinking about it, and I’ve no wish 
1 on earth but to make you happy. Will 

I it make you happier if I promise now 

I that it shall be as you said ?” 

“Yes,” said Sissy with eager eyes. 

“ Then I do promise : all that is mine 
) to leave he shall have.” 

Sissy answered with a smile. “Kiss 
me,” she said. And so the promise was 
sealed. After that the worst of the night 
seemed somehow to be over. Sissy slept 
a little, and Aunt Harriet nodded once 
or twice in the easy-chair. Starting into 
wakefulness after one of these moments, 
she saw the outline of the window faint- 
ly defined in gray, and thanked God that 
the dawn had come. 


CHAPTER LI. 

BY THE EXPRESS. 

Mr. Hardwicke, not knowing Per- 
cival Thorne’s precise address, had tele- 
graphed to Godfrey Hammond, begging 
him to forward the message without de- 
lay. A couple of days earlier Hammond 
had suddenly taken it into his head that 
he was tired of being in town and would 
go away somewhere. In a sort of whim- 
sical amusement at his own mood he de- 
cided that the Land’s End ought to suit 
a misanthrope, and promptly took a tick- 
et for Penzance as a considerable step in 
the right direction. 

It made no difference to Percival, for 
Hammond had left full directions with 
a trustworthy servant in case any letters 
should come for Mr. Thorne, and the 
man sent the message on to Brenthill at 
once. But it made a difference to Ham- 
mond himself. When Hardwicke de- 
spatched the telegram to his address in 
town Godfrey lay on the turf at the Liz- 
ard Head, gazing southward across the 
sunlit sea, while the seabirds screamed 
and the white waves broke on the jag- 
ged rocks far below. 

But with Percival there was no delay. 
The message found him in Bellevue 
street, though he did not return there 
immediately after his parting with Ju- 
dith. He wanted the open air, the sky 
overhead, movement and liberty to calm 
the joyful tumult in heart and brain. He 
hastened to the nearest point whence he 
could look over trees and fields. The 
prospect was not very beautiful. The 
trees were few — some cropped willows 
by a mud-banked rivulet and a group 
or two of gaunt and melancholy elms. 
And the fields had a trodden, suburban 
aspect, which made it hardly needful to 
stick up boards describing them as eli- 
gible building -ground. Yet there was 
grass, such as it was, and daisies sprink- 
led here and there, and soft cloud-shad- 
ows gliding over it. Percival’s unreal 
and fantastic dream had perished sud- 
denly when Judith put her hand in his. 
Now, as he walked across these mead- 
ows, he saw a new vision, that dream of 
noble, simple poverty, which, if it could 
but be realized, would be the fairest of all. 


272 


*^FOR PERCIVALF 


When he returned from his walk, and 
came once more to the well-known street 
which he was learning to call “ home," 
he was so much calmer that he thought 
he was quite himself again. Not the lan- 
guid, hopeless self who had lived there 
once, but a self young, vigorous, elate, 
rejoicing in the present and looking con- 
fidently toward the future. 

This I can tell. 

That all will go well, 

was the keynote of his mood. He felt 
as if he trod on air — as if he had but to 
walk boldly forward and every obstacle I 
must give way. The door of No. 13 was 
open, and a boy who had brought a tele- 
gram was turning away from it. Hurry- 
ing in with eager eyes and his face bright 
witn unspoken joy, Percival nearly ran up 
against Mrs. Bryant and Emma, whose 
heads were close together over the ad- 
dress on the envelope. 

" Lor ! Mr. Thorne, how you startled 
me! It’s for you,” said his landlady. 

He went up the stairs two at a time, 
with his message in his hand. Here was 
some good news — not for one moment 
did he dream it could be other than good 
news — come to crown this day, already 
the whitest of his life. He tore the pa- 
per open and read it by the red sunset 
light, hotly reflected from a wilderness 
of tiles. 

He read it twice — thrice — caught at 
the window-frame to steady himself, and 
stood staring vaguely at the smoke which 
curled upward from a neighboring chim- 
ney. He was stunned. The words seem- 
ed to have a meaning and no meaning. 

" This is not how people receive news of 
death, surely?” he thought. “I suppose 
I am in my right senses, or is it a dream ?” 

He made a strong effort to regain his 
self-command, but all certainties eluded 
him. This was not the first time that 
he had taken up a telegram and believed 
that he read the tidings of Sissy’s death. 
He had misunderstood it now as then. 

It could not be. But why could he not 
wake ? 

” Ashendale.” Yes, he remembered 
Ashendale. He had ridden past the 
ruins the last day he ever rode with 
Sissy, the day that Horace came home. 1 


It belonged to the Latimers — to Walter 
Latimer. And Sissy was dying at Ash- 
endale 1 

All at once he knew that it was no 
dream. But the keen edge of pain awoke 
him to the thought of what he had to do, 
and sent him to hunt among a heap of 
papers for a time-table. He drew a long 
breath. The express started at 10.5, and 
it was now but twenty minutes past eight. 

He caught up his hat and hurried to 
the office. Mr. Ferguson, who seldom 
left much before that time, was on the 
I doorstep. While he was getting into his 
dog-cart Percival hastily explained that 
he had been summoned on a matter 
of life and death. ” Sorry to hear it,” 
said the lawyer as he took the reins — 
“hope you may find things better than 
you expect. We shall see you again 
when you come back.” And with a nod 
he rattled down the street. Percival stood 
on the pavement gazing after him, when 
he suddenly remembered that he had no 
money. ” I might have asked him to 
give me my half week’s salary,” he re- 
flected. “ Not that that would have 
paid my fare.” 

A matter of life and death I Sissy wait- 
ing for him at Ashendale, and no money 
to pay for a railway-ticket ! It would have 
been absurd if it had not been horrible. 
What had he to sell or pawn ? By the 
time he could go to Bellevue street and 
return would not the shops be shut ? It 
was a quarter to nine already. He did 
not even know where any pawnbroker 
lived, nor what he could take to him, 
and the time was terribly short. He 
was hurrying homeward while these 
thoughts passed through his mind when 
Judith’s words came back to him : ” I 
have a pound or two to spare, and I 
feel quite rich.” He took the first turn- 
ing toward Miss Macgregor’s house. 

Outside her door he halted for a mo- 
ment. If they would not let him see 
Judith, how was he to convey his re- 
quest ? He felt in his pocket, found 
the telegram and pencilled below the 
message, ” Sissy Langton was once to 
have been my wife : we parted, and I 
have never seen her since. I have not 
1 money enough for my railway-fare : can 


**FOR PERCIVALr 


273 


you help me ?” He folded it and rang 
the bell. 

No, he could not see Miss Lisle. She 
was particularly engaged. “ Very well,” 
he said: ‘‘be so good as to take this note 
to her, and I will wait for the answer.” 
His manner impressed the girl so much 
that, although she had been carefully 
trained by Miss Macgregor, she cast but 
one hesitating glance at the umbrella- 
stand before she went on her errand. 

Percival waited, eager to be off, yet 
well assured that it was all right since 
it was in Judith’s hands. Presently the 
servant returned and gave him a little 
packet. The wax of the seal was still 
warm. He opened it where he stood, 
and by the light of Miss Macgregor’s 
hall -lamp read the couple of lines it 
contained : 

‘‘I cannot come, but I send you all 
the money I have. I pray God you 
may be in time. Yours, Judith.” 

There were two sovereigns and some 
silver. He told the girl to thank Miss 
Lisle, and went out into the dusk as the 
clocks were striking nine. Ten minutes 
brought him to Bellevue street, and rush- 
ing up to his room he began to put a few 
things into a little travelling-bag. In his 
haste he neglected to shut the door, and 
Mrs. Bryant, whose curiosity had been 
excited, came upon him in the midst 
of this occupation. 

‘‘And what may be the meaning of 
this, Mr. Thorne, if I may make so bold 
as to ask?” she said, eying him doubt- 
fully from the doorway. 

Percival explained that he had had bad 
news and was off by the express. 

Mrs. Bryant’s darkest suspicions were 
aroused. She said it was a likely story. 

‘‘ Why, you gave me the telegram your- 
self,” he answered indifferently while he 
caught up a couple of collars. He was too 
much absorbed to heed either Mrs. Bry- 
ant or his packing. 

‘‘And who sent it, I should like to 
know ?” 

Percival made no answer, and she 
began to grumble about people who had 
money enough to travel all over the coun- 
try at a minute’s notice if they liked, and 
18 


none to pay their debts — people who made 
promises by the hour together, and then 
sneaked off, leaving boxes with nothing 
inside them, she’d be bound. 

Thus baited, Percival at last turned an- 
grily upon her, but before he could utter 
a word another voice interposed: ‘‘What 
are you always worrying about, ma ? Do 
come down and have your supper, and let 
Mr. Thorne finish his packing. He’ll pay 
you every halfpenny he owes you: don’t 
you know that ?” And the door was shut 
with such decision that it was a miracle 
that Mrs. Bryant was not dashed against 
the opposite wall. ‘‘Come along,” said 
Lydia: ‘‘there’s toasted cheese.” 

Percival ran down stairs five minutes 
later with his bag in his hand. He turn- 
ed into his sitting-room, picked up a few 
papers and thrust them into his desk. 
He was in the act of locking it when 
he heard a step behind him, and look- 
ing round he saw Lydia. She had a 
cup of tea and some bread and butter, 
which she set down before him. ‘‘You 
haven’t had a morsel since the middle 
of the day,” she said. ‘‘Just you drink 
this. Oh, you must : there’s lots of 
time.” 

‘‘ Miss Bryant, this is very kind of you, 
but I don’t think — ” 

‘‘Just you drink it,” said Lydia, ‘‘and 
eat a bit too, or you’ll be good for noth- 
ing.” And while Percival hastily obey- 
ed she glanced round the room : ‘‘ No- 
body’ll meddle with your things while 
you’re gone : don’t you trouble your- 
self.” 

‘‘Oh, T didn’t suspect that any one 
would,” he replied, hardly thinking 
whether it was likely or not as he swal- 
lowed the bread and butter. 

‘‘ Well, that was very nice of you. I’m 
sure, /should have suspected a lot if 
I’d been you,” said Lydia candidly. 
‘‘ But nobody shall. Now, you aren’t 
going to leave that tea ? Why, it wants 
twenty minutes to ten, and not six mi- 
nutes’ walk to the station!” 

Percival finished the tea : ” Thank you 
very much. Miss Bryant.” 

‘‘And I say,” Lydia pursued, pulling 
her curl with less than her usual con- 
sideration for its beauty, *‘ I suppose you 


274 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


have got money enough ? Because if not, 
I’ll lend you a little. Don’t you mind 
what ma says, Mr. Thorne. I know 
you’re all right. 

‘‘You are very good,” said Percival. 
‘‘ I didn’t expect so much kindness, and 
I’ve been borrowing already, so I need- 
n’t trouble you. But thank you for your 
confidence in me and for your thought- 
fulness.” He held out his hand to Lydia, 
and thus bade farewell to Bellevue street. 

She stood for a moment looking after 
him. Only a few hours before she would 
have rejoiced in any small trouble or dif- 
ficulty which might have befallen Mr. 
Thorne. But when he turned round 
upon her mother and herself as they 
stood at his door, her spite had vanish- 
ed before the sorrowful anxiety of his 
eyes. She had frequently declared that 
Mr. Thorne was no gentleman, and that 
she despised him, but she knew in her 
heart that he was a gentleman, and she 
was ashamed of her mother’s behavior. 
Lydia was capable of being magnani- 
mous, provided the object of her magna- 
nimity were a man. I doubt if she could 
have been magnanimous to a woman. 
But Percival Thorne was a young and 
handsome man, and though she did 
not know what his errand might be, she 
knew that she was not sending him to 
Miss Lisle. Standing before his glass, 
she smoothed back her hair with both 
hands, arranged the ribbon at her throat 
and admired the blue earrings and a 
large locket which she wore suspended 
from a chain. Even while she thought 
kindly of Mr. Thorne, and wished him 
well, she was examining her complexion 
and her hands with the eye of a critic. 
‘‘ I don’t believe that last stuff is a mite 
of good,” she said to herself; ‘‘and it’s 
no end of bother. I might as well pitch 
the bottle out of the window. It was just 
as well that he’d borrowed the money of 
some one else, but I’m glad I offered it. 
I wonder when he’ll come back ?” And 
with that Lydia returned to her toasted 
cheese. 

Percival had had a nervous fear of 
some hinderance on his way to the sta- 
tion. It was so urgent that he should go 
by this train that the necessity oppressed 


him like a nightmare. An earthquake 
seemed a not improbable thing. He was 
seriously afraid that he might lose his way 
during the five minutes’ walk through fa- 
miliar streets. He imagined an error of 
half an hour or so in all the Brenthill 
clocks. He hardly knew what he ex- 
pected, but he felt it a relief when he 
came to the station and found it stand- 
ing in its right place, quietly awaiting 
him. He was the first to take a ticket, ' 
and the moment the train drew up by 
the platform his hand was on the door 
of a carriage, though before getting in 
he stopped a porter to inquire if this 
were the express. The porter answered 
‘‘Yes, sir — all right,” with the half smile 
of superior certainty : what else could it i 
be ? Thorne took his place and waited 
a few minutes, which seemed an eter- 
nity. Then the engine screamed, throb- 
bed, and with quickening speed rushed 
out into the night. - 

A man was asleep in one corner of the ■ 
carriage, otherwise Percival was alone. , 
His nervous anxiety subsided, since 
nothing further depended upon him till 
he reached town, and he sat thinking 
of Sissy and of that brief engagement 
which had already receded into a shad- , 
owy past. ‘‘ It was a mistake,” he mused, 

‘‘ and she found it out before it was too 
late. But I believe her poor little heart 
has been aching for me, lest she wound- 
ed me too cruelly that night. It wasn’t 
her fault. She would have hid her fear 
of me, poor child ! if she had been able. 
And she was so sorry for me in my trou- | 
ble ! I don’t think she could be content { 
to go on her way and take her happiness | 
now while my life was spoilt and miser- | 
able. Poor little Sissy ! she will be glad i 
to know — ” I 

And then he remembered that it was j 
to a dying Sissy that the tidings of mar- J 
riage and hope must be uttered, if utter- J 
ed at all. And he sat as it were in a dull 
dream, trying to realize how the life which '' 
in the depths of his poverty had seemed ^ 
so beautiful and safe was suddenly cut 
short, and how Sissy at that moment lay 
in the darkness, waiting — waiting — wait- . 
ing. The noise of the train took up his 
thought, and set it to a monotonous rep- 


'‘FOR PERCIVALF 


275 


etition of “Waiting at Ashendale ! wait- 
ing at Ashendale!” If only she might 
live till he could reach her! He seem- 
ed to be hurrying onward, yet no near- 
er. His overwrought brain caught up the 
fancy that Death and he were side by 
side, racing together through the dark, 
at breathless, headlong speed, to Sissy, 
where she waited for them both. 

Outside, the landscape lay dim and 
small, dwarfed by the presence of the 
night. And with the lights burning on 
its breast, as Sissy saw them in her half- 
waking visions, the express rushed south- 
ward across the level blackness of the 
land, beneath the arch of midnight sky. 

# 

CHAPTER LII. 

Quand on a trouve ce qu’on cherchait, on n’a pas 
le temps de le dire ; il faut mourir. — ^J. Joubert. 

When the gray of the early morning 
had changed to golden sunlight, and 
the first faint twittering of the birds gave 
place to fuller melody, Mrs. Middleton 
went softly to the window, opened it 
and fastened it back. She drew a long 
breath of the warm air fresh from the 
beanfields, and, looking down into the 
little orchard below, saw Harry Hard- 
wicke, who stepped forward and looked 
up at her. She signed to him to wait, 
and a couple of minutes later she joined 
him. 

“ How is she ? How has she passed 
the night?” he asked eagerly. 

“She is no worse. She has lived 
through it bravely, with one thought. 
You were very right to send for Perci- 
val.” 

Hardwicke looked down and colored 
as he had colored when he spoke of him 
before. “I’m glad,” he said. “I’m off 
to fetch him in about an hour and a half.” 

“Nothing from Godfrey Hammond?” 
she asked after a pause. 

“No. I’ll ask at my father’s as I go 
by. He will either come or we shall 
hear, unless he is out.” 

“Of course,” the old lady answered. 
“ Godfrey Hammond would not fail me. 
And now good-bye, Harry, till you bring 
Percival.” 


She went away as swiftly and lightly 
as she had come a minute before, and 
left Hardwicke standing on the turf un- 
der the apple trees gazing up at the open 
casement. A June morning, sun shining, 
soft winds blowing, a young lover under 
his lady’s window : it should have been 
a perfect poem. And the lady within lay 
crushed and maimed, dying in the very 
heart of her June ! 

Hardwicke let himself out through the 
little wicket-gate, and went back to the 
Latimer Arms. He entered the bed- 
room without disturbing Archie, who lay 
with his sunburnt face on the white pil- 
low, smiling in his sleep. He could not 
find it in his heart to arouse him. The 
boy’s lips parted, he murmured a word 
or two, and seemed to sink into a yet 
deeper slumber. Hardwicke went soft- 
ly out, gave the landlady directions about 
breakfast, and returned, watch in hand. 
“ I suppose I must,” he said to himself. 

But he stopped short. Carroll stirred, 
stretched himself, his eyes were half open : 
evidently his waking was a pleasant one. 
But suddenly the unfamiliar aspect of the 
room attracted his attention; he looked 
eagerly round, a shadow swept across 
his face, and he turned and saw Hard- 
wicke. “ It’s true !” he said, and flung 
out his arms in a paroxysm of despair. 

Harry walked to the window and leant 
out. Presently a voice behind him asked, 
“ Have you been to the farm, Mr. Hard- 
wicke ?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. “ But there is no 
news. She passed a tolerably quiet night : 
there is no change.” 

“ I’ve been asleep,” said Archie after a 
pause. “ I never thought I should sleep.” 
He looked ashamed of having done so. 

“ It would have been strange if you 
hadn’t : you were worn out.” 

“My watch has run down,” the other 
continued. “What is the time?” 

“Twenty minutes past seven. I want 
to speak to you, Carroll. I think you had 
better go home.” 

“ Home ? To Fordborough ? To Ray- 
mond ?” 

“No. Really home, to your own people. 
You can write to your cousin. You don’t 
want to go back to him ?” 


2/6 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


Archie shook his head. Then a sud- 
den sense of injustice to Fothergill 
prompted him to say, “ Ray was never 
hard on me before.” 

‘‘ You mustn’t think about that,” Hard- 
wicke replied. ” People don’t weigh their 
words at such times. But, Carroll, you 
can do nothing here — less than noth- 
ing. You’ll be better away. Give me 
your address, and I’ll write any news 
there is. Look sharp now, and you can 
go into Fordborough with me and catch 
the up train.” 

As they drove through the green lanes, 
along which they had passed the day be- 
fore, Archie looked right and left, recall- 
ing the incidents of that earlier drive. 
Already he was better, possessing his 
sorrow with greater keenness and ful- 
ness than at first, but not so miserably 
possessed by it. Hardly a word was 
spoken till they stood on the platform 
and a far-off puff of white showed the 
coming train. Then he said, ” I shall 
never forget your kindness, Mr. Hard- 
wicke. If ever there’s anything I can 
do — ” 

” You’ll do it,” said Harry with a smile. 

“That I will ! And you’ll write ?” 

Hardwicke answered “Yes.” He knew 
too well what it was he promised to write 
to say a word more. 

It was a relief to him when Carroll was 
gone and he could pace the platform and 
watch for the London train. He looked 
through the open doorway, and saw his 
dogcart waiting in the road and the 
horse tossing his head impatiently in 
the sunshine. Through all his anxiety 
— or rather side by side with his anxiety 
— he was conscious of a current of inter- 
est in all manner of trivial things. He 
thought of the price he had given for the 
horse five months before, and of Latimer’s 
opinion of his bargain. He noticed the sta- 
tion-master in the distance, and remem- 
bered that some one had said he drank. 
He watched a row of small birds sitting 
on the telegraph-wires just outside the 
station, and all at once the London train 
came gliding rapidly and unexpectedly 
out of the cutting close by, and was there. 

A hurried rush along the line of car- 
riages, with his heart sinking lower at 


every step, a despairing glance round, 
and he perceived the man he came to 
meet walking off at the farther end of 
the platform. He came up with him as 
he stopped to speak to a porter. 

“Ah ! I am in time, then ?” said Per- 
cival when he looked round in reply to 
Hardwicke’s hurried greeting. 

“Yes, thank God ! I promised to drive 
you over to Ashendale at once.” 

Percival nodded, and took his place 
without a word. Not till they were fairly 
started on their journey did he turn to his 
companion. “ How did it happen ?” he 
asked. 

Hardwicke gave him a brief account 
of the accident. He listened eagerly, 
and then, just saying “It’s very dread- 
ful,” he was silent again. But it was 
the silence of a man intent on his er- 
rand, leaning slightly forward as if 
drawn by a powerful attraction, and 
with eyes fixed on the point where he 
would first see the ruins of Ashendale 
Priory above the trees. Hardwicke did 
not venture to speak to him. As the 
man whom Sissy Langton loved, Perci- 
val Thorne was to him the first of men, 
but, considered from Hardwicke’s own 
point of view, he was a fellow with whom 
he had little or nothing in common — a 
man who quoted poetry and saw all i»an- 
ner of things in pictures and ruins, who 
went out of his way to think about pol- 
itics, and was neither Conservative nor 
Radical when all was done — a man who 
rather disliked dogs and took no interest 
in horses. Hardwicke did not want to 
speak about dogs, horses or politics then, 
but the consciousness of their want of 
sympathy was in his mind. 

As they drove through the village they 
caught a passing glimpse of a brougham. 
“Ha! Brackenhill,” said Thorne, look- 
ing after it. They dashed round a cor- 
ner and pulled up in front of the farm- 
house. Hardwicke took no pains to spare 
the noise of their arrival. He knew very 
well that the sound of wheels would be 
music to Sissy’s ears. 

A tall, slim figure, which even on that 
June morning had the air of being wrap- 
ped up, passed and repassed in the hall 
within. As the two young men came up 

I 


SEE HERE, SISSY,” SAID PERCIVAL, “WE ARE FRIENDS.” — Page 278. 


^^FOR PERCIVALr 


277 



the path Horace appeared in the porch. [ a year had wrought in him startled Per- 
Even at that moment the change which 1 cival. He was a mere shadow. He had 


looked ill before, but now he looked as | “She will not see me,” he said to 
if he were dying. I Hardwicke. His voice was that of a 



278 


*^FOR PERCIVALP 


confirmed invalid, a mixture of com- 
plaint and helplessness. He ignored 
his cousin. 

“She will see you now that Percival 
has come,” said Mrs. Middleton, ad- 
vancing from the background. “She 
will see you together.” 

And she led the way. Horace went 
in second, and Percival last, yet he was 
the first to meet the gaze of those wait- 
ing eyes. The young men stood side 
by side, looking down at the delicate 
face on the pillow. It was pale, and 
seemed smaller than usual in the midst 
of the loosened waves of hair. On one 
side of the forehead there was a dark 
mark, half wound, half bruise — a mere 
nothing but for its terrible suggestiveness. 
But the clear eyes and the gentle little 
mouth were unchanged. Horace said 
“Oh, Sissy!” and Sissy said “Percival.” 
He could not speak, but stooped and 
kissed the little hand which lay pas- 
sively on the coverlet. 

“Whisper,” said Sissy. He bent over 
her. “Have you forgiven him?” she 
asked. 

“Yes.” The mere thought of enmity 
was horrible to him as he looked into 
Sissy’s eyes with that spectral Horace 
by his side. 

“ Are you sure ? Quite ?” 

“Before God and you, Sissy.” 

“Tell him so, Percival.” 

He stood up and turned to his cousin. 
“ Horace I” he said, and held out his 
hand. The other put a thin hot hand 
into it. — “See here. Sissy,” said Perci- 
val, “we are friends.” 

“Yes, we’re friends,” Horace repeated. 
“ Has it vexed you. Sissy ? I thought you 
didn’t care about me. I’m sorry, dear — 
I’m very sorry.” 

Aunt Harriet, standing by, laid her 
hand on his arm. She had held aloof 
for that long year, feeling that he was 
in the wrong. He had not acted as a 
Thorne should, and he could never be 
the same to her as in old days. But 
she had wanted her boy, nevertheless, 
right or wrong, and since Percival had 
pardoned him, and since it was partly 
Godfrey’s hardness that had driven him 
into deceit, and since he was so ill, and 


since — and since — she loved him, she 
drew his head down to her and kissed 
him. Horace was weak, and he had to 
turn his face away and wipe his eyes. 
But, relinquishing Percival’s hand, he 
held Aunt Harriet’s. 

Percival stooped again, in obedience 
to a sign from Sissy. “Ask him to for- 
give me,” she said. 

“He knows nothing, dear.” 

“Ask him for me.” 

“ Horace,” said Percival, “Sissy wants 
your forgiveness.” 

“ I’ve nothing to forgive,” said Horace. 
“ It is I who ought to ask to be forgiven. 
It was hard on me when first you came 
to Brackenhill, Percy, but it has been 
harder on you since. I hardly know 
what I said or did on that day : I thought 
you’d been plotting against me.” 

“No, no,” said Sissy — “not he.” 

“No, but I did think so. — Since then 
I’ve felt that, anyhow, it was not fair. 
I suppose I was too proud to say so, 
or hardly knew how, especially as the 
wrong is past mending. But I do ask 
your pardon now.” 

“You have it,” said Percival. “We 
didn’t understand each other very well.” 

“But I never blamed you. Sissy — nev- 
er, for one moment. I wasn’t so bad as 
that. I’ve watched for you now and 
then in Fordborough streets, just to get 
a glimpse as you went by. I thought it 
was you who would never forgive me, 
because of Percival.” 

“He has forgiven,” said Sissy. But 
her eyes still sought Percival’s. 

“ Look here, Horace,” he said. “ There 
was a misunderstanding you knew noth- 
ing of, and Sissy feels that she might have 
cleared it up. It was cleared up at last, 
but I think it altered my grandfather’s 
manner to you for a time. If you wish 
to know the whole I will tell you. But 
since it is all over and done with, and 
did not really do you any harm, if you 
like best ” — he looked steadily at Hor- 
ace — “ that we should forgive and forget 
on both sides, we will bury the past here 
to-day.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Horace. “Sissy may 
have made a mistake, but she never 
meant me any harm, I know.” 


^^FOR percival: 


279 


“Don’t! don’t! Oh, Horace, I did, 
but I am sorry.’’ 

“God knows I forgive you, whatever 
it was,’’ he said. 

“ Kiss me, Horace.’’ 

He stooped and kissed her, as he had 
kissed her many a time when she was 
his little pet and playmate. She kissed 
him back again, and smiled : “ Good- 
bye, Horry!’’ 

Mrs. Middleton interposed. “This will 
be too much for her,’’ she said. — "Per- 
cival, she wants you, I see: be careful.’’ 
And she drew Horace gently away. 

Percival sat down by the bedside. 
Presently Sarah came in and went to 
the farther end of the room, waiting in 
case she should be wanted. Sissy was 
going to speak once, but Percival stop- 
ped her : “ Lie still a little while, dear : 
I’m not going away.’’ 

She lay still, looking up at this Perci- 
val for whom she had watched and wait- 
ed through the dreary night, and who 
had come to her with the morning. And 
he, as he sat by her side, was thinking 
how at that time the day before he was 
in the office at Brenthill. He could 
hardly believe that less than twenty-four 
hours had given him the assurance of 
Judith’s love and brought him to Sissy’s 
deathbed. He was in a strangely exalt- 
ed state of mind. His face was calm as 
if cast in bronze, but a crowd of thoughts 
and feelings contended for the mastery 
beneath it. He had eaten nothing since 
the night before, and had not slept, but 
his excitement sustained him. 

He met Sissy’s eyes and smiled ten- 
derly. How was it that he had fright- 
ened her in old days ? Could he ever 
have been cruel to one so delicate and 
clinging ? Yet he must have been, since 
he had driven away her love. She was 
afraid of him ; she had begged to be free. 
Well, the past was past, but at least no 
word nor look of his should frighten or 
grieve the poor child now. 

After a time she spoke: “You have 
worked too hard. Isn’t it that you want- 
ed to do something great ?’’ 

“That isn’t at all likely,’’ said Percival 
with a melancholy smile. “ I’m all right. 
Sissy.’’ 


“ No, you are pale. You wanted to sur- 
prise us. Oh, I guessed ! Godfrey Ham- 
mond didn’t tell me. I should have been 
glad if I could have waited to see it.’’ 

“ Don’t talk so,’’ he entreated. “ There 
will be nothing to see.’’ 

“You mustn’t work too hard — prom- 
ise,’’ she whispered. 

“No, dear, I won’t.’’ 

“Percival, will you be good to me?’’ 

“If I can I will indeed. What can I 
do ?’’ 

“ I want you to have my money. It is 
my own, and I have nobody.’’ Sissy re- 
membered the terrible mistake she had 
once made, and wanted an assurance 
from his own lips that her gift was ac- 
cepted. 

Percival hesitated for a moment, and 
even the moment’s hesitation alarmed 
her. It was true, as she said, that she 
had nobody, and her words opened a 
golden gateway before Judith and him- 
self. Should he tell her of that double 
joy and double gratitude ? He believed 
that she would be glad, but it seemed 
selfish and horrible to talk of love and 
marriage by that bedside. “ I \vish you 
might live to need it all yourself, dear,’’ 
he answered, and laid his hand softly on 
hers. The strip of embroidery caught his 
eye. “What’s this he said in blank 
surprise. “ And your thimble ! Sissy, 
you mustn’t bother yourself about this 
work now.’’ He would have drawn it 
gently away. 

The fingers closed on it suddenly, and 
the weak voice panted : “ No, Percival. 
It’s mine. That was before we were en- 
gaged : you spoilt my other.’’ 

“O God!’’ he said. In a moment all 
came back to him. He remembered the 
summer day at Brackenhill — Sissy and 
he upon the terrace — the work-box up- 
set and the thimble crushed beneath 
his foot. He remembered her pretty 
reproaches and their laughter over her 
enforced idleness. He remembered how 
he rode into Fordborough and bought 
that little gold thimble — the first present 
he ever made her. All his gifts during 
their brief engagement had been scru- 
pulously returned, but this, as she had 
said, was given before. And she was 


28 o 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


dying with it in her hand ! She had 
loved him from first to last. 

“Percival, you will take my money?” 
she pleaded, fearing some incomprehen- 
sible scruple. 

‘‘For God’s sake, Sissy ! I must think 
a moment.” He buried his face in his 
hands. 

‘‘Oh, you are cruel!” she whispered. 

How could he think ? Sissy loved him 
— had always loved him. It was all plain 
to him now. He had been blind, and 
he had come back to find out the truth 
the day after he had pledged himself to 
Judith Lisle 1 

‘‘ Don’t be unkind to me, Percival : I 
can’t bear it, dear.” 

How could he stab her to the heart by 
a refusal of that which he so sorely need- 
ed? How could he tell her of his en- 
gagement ? How could he keep silence, 
and take her money to spend it with Ju- 
dith ? 

‘‘ Say ‘ Yes,’ Percival. It is mine. Why 
not ? why not ?” 

He spoke through his clasped hands : 
‘‘One moment more.” 

‘‘ I shall never ask you anything again,” 
she whispered. ‘‘Oh, Percival, be good 
to me I” 

He raised his head and looked earnest- 
ly at her. He must be true, happen what 
might. 

‘‘ Sissy, God knows I thank you for 
your goodness. I sha’n’t forget it, liv- 
ing or dying. If only you might be 
spared — ” 

‘‘No, no. Say ‘Yes,’ Percival.” 

‘‘ I will say ‘ Yes’ if, when I have done, 
you wish it still. But it must be ‘ Yes ’ for 
some one besides myself. Dear, don’t 
give it to me to make amends in any- 
way. You have not wronged me, Sis- 
sy. Don’t give it to me, dear, unless 
you give it to Judith Lisle.” 

As he spoke he looked into her eyes. 
Their sweet entreaty gave place to a flash 
of pained reproach, as if they said ‘‘So 
soon ?” Then the light in them waver- 
ed and went out. Percival sprang up. 
‘‘Help! she has fainted!” 

Sarah hurried from her post by the 
window, and the sound of quick foot- 
steps brought back Mrs. Middleton. 


The young man stood aside, dismay- 
ed. ‘‘She isn’t dead?” he said in alow 
voice. 

Aunt Harriet did not heed him. A 
horrible moment passed, during which 
he felt himself a murderer. Then Sissy 
moaned and turned her face a little to 
the wall. 

‘‘Go now: she cannot speak to you,” 
said Mrs. Middleton. 

‘‘ I can’t. Only one more word !” 

‘‘What do you mean ? What have you 
done ? You may wait outside, and I will 
call you. She cannot bear any more 
now : do you want to kill her outright ?” 

He went. There was a wide window- 
seat in the passage, and he dropped down 
upon it, utterly worn out and wretched. 
‘‘What have I done?” he asked himself, 
‘‘ What made me do it ? She loved me, 
and I have been a brute to her. If I 
had been a devil, could I have tortured 
her more.?” 

Presently Mrs. Middleton came to 
him: ‘‘She cannot see you now, but 
she is better.” 

He looked up at her as he sat : ‘‘Aunt 
Harriet, I meant it for the best. Say what 
you like : I was a brute, I suppose, but I 
thought I was doing right.” 

‘‘ What do you mean ?” Her tone was 
gentler : she detected the misery in his. 

Percival took her hand and laid it on 
his forehead. ‘‘You can’t think I meant 
to be cruel to our Sissy,” he said. ‘‘You 
will let me speak to her ?” 

She softly pushed back his hair. After 
all, he was the man Sissy loved. ‘‘ What 
was it ?” she asked : ‘‘what did you do ?” 

He looked down. ‘‘ I’m going to marry 
Miss Lisle,” he said. 

She started away from him : ‘‘You told 
her that ? God forgive you, Percival !” 

‘‘ I should have been a liar if I hadn’t.” 

‘‘ Couldn’t you let her die in peace ? 
It is such a little while! Couldn’t you 
have waited till she was in her grave ?” 

‘‘Will she see me? Just one word. 
Aunt Harriet.” And yet while he plead- 
ed he did not know what the one word 
was that he would say. Only he felt 
that he must see her once more. 

‘‘ Not now,” said Mrs. Middleton. ‘‘ My 
poor darling shall not be tortured any 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


281 


more. Later, if she wishes it, but not 
now. She could not bear it.” 

” But you will ask her to see me later ?” 
he entreated. ” I must see her.” 

” What is she to you ? She is all the 
world to me, and she shall be left in 
peace. It is all that I can do for her 
now. You have been cruel to her al- 
ways — always. She has been breaking 
her heart for you : she lived through 
last night with the hope of your com- 
ing. Oh, Percival, God knows I wish 
we had never called you away from 
Miss Lisle !” 

” Don’t say that.” 

“Go back to her,” said Aunt Harriet, 
“ and leave my darling to me. We were 
happy at Brackenhill till you came there.” 

He sprang to his feet : “Aunt Harriet! 
have some mercy! You know I would 
die if it could make Sissy any happier.” 

“And Miss Lisle?” she said. 

He turned away with a groan, and, 
leaning against the wall, put his hand 
over his eyes. Mrs. Middleton hesitated 
a moment, but her haste to return to Sis- 
sy triumphed over any relenting feelings, 
and she left him, pausing only at the 
door to make sure of her calmness. 

Noon came and passed. Sissy had spo- 
ken once to bid them take the needlework 
away. “ I’ve done with it,” she said. Oth- 
erwise she was silent, and only looked at 
them with gentle, apathetic eyes when 
they spoke to her. Dr. Grey came and 
went again. On his way out he noticed 
Percival, looked keenly at him, but said 
nothing. 

Henry Hardwicke’s desire to be useful 
had prompted him to station himself on 
the road a short distance from the farm, 
at the turning from the village. There 
he stopped people coming to inquire, 
and gave the latest intelligence. It was 
weary work, lounging there by the way- 
side, but he hoped he was serving Sissy 
Langton to the last. He could not even 
have a cigar to help to pass the time, for 
he had an idea that Mrs. Middleton dis- 
liked the smell of smoke. He stared at 
the trees and the sky, drew letters in the 
dust with the end of a stick, stirred up a 
small ants’ nest, examined the structure 
of a dog-rose or two and some butter- 


I cups, and compared the flavors of differ- 
ent kinds of leaves. He came forward 
as Dr. Grey went by. The doctor stop- 
ped to tell him that Miss Langton was 
certainly weaker. “But she may linger 
some hours yet,” he added ; and he was 
going on his way when a thought seem- 
ed to strike him. “Are you staying at 
the farm ?” he asked. 

“No : they’ve enough without me. I’m 
at the little public-house close by.” 

“Going there for some luncheon ?” 

Hardwicke supposed so. 

“ Can’t you get young Thorne to go 
with you ? He looks utterly exhausted.” 

Hardwicke went off on his mission, but 
he could not persuade him to stir. “All 
right !” he said at last : “ then I shall bring 
you something to eat here.” Percival 
agreed to that compromise, and owned 
afterward that he felt better for the 
food he had taken. 

The slow hours of the afternoon went 
wearily by. The rector of Fordborough 
came ; Dr. Grey came again ; Mrs. Lati- 
mer passed two or three times. The sky 
began to grow red toward the west once 
more, and the cawing rooks flew home- 
ward, past the window where Percival 
sat waiting vainly for the summons 
which did not come. 

Hardwicke, released from his self-im- 
posed duty, came to see if Percival would 
go with him for half an hour or so to the 
Latimer Arms. “ I’ve got a kind of tea- 
dinner,” he said — “chops and that sort 
of thing. You’d better have some.” But 
it was of no use. So when he came back 
to the house the good - natured fellow 
brought some more provisions, and beg- 
ged Lucy Greenwell to make some tea, 
which he carried up. 

“Where are you going to spend the 
night ?” asked Harry, coming up again 
when he had taken away the cup and 
plate. 

“ Here,” said Percival. He sat with 
his hands clasped behind his head and 
one leg drawn up on the seat. His face 
was sharply defined against the square 
of sunset sky. 

Hardwicke stood with his hands in his 
pockets, looking down at him. “ But you 
can’t sleep here,” he said. 


282 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


“ That doesn’t matter much. Sleeping 
or waking, here I stay.” 

A sudden hope flashed in his eyes, for 
the door of Sissy’s room opened, and, 
closing it behind her, Mrs. Middleton 
came out and looked up and down the 
passage. But she called ” Harry ” in a 
low voice, and Percival leant back again. 

Harry went. Mrs. Middleton had 
moved a little farther away, and stood 
with her back toward Percival and one 
hand pressed against the wall to steady 
herself. Her first question was an un- 
expected one : ‘‘ Isn’t the wind getting 
up ?” Her eyes were frightened and 
her voice betrayed her anxiety. 

“ I don’t know — not much, I think.” 
He was taken by surprise, and hesitated 
a little. 

“It is: tell me the truth.” 

“I am — I will,” he stammered. “I 
haven’t thought about it. There is a 
pleasant little breeze, such as often 
comes in the evening. I don’t really 
think there’s any more.” 

‘‘It isn’t rising, then?” 

‘‘Wait a minute,” said Hardwicke, and 
hurried off. He did not in the least un- 
derstand his errand, but it was enough for 
him that Mrs. Middleton wanted to know. 
If she had asked him the depth of water 
in the well or the number of trees on the 
Priory fami, he would have rushed away 
with the same eagerness to satisfy her. 
His voice was heard in the porch, alter- 
nating with deeper and less carefully re- 
strained tones. Then there was a sound 
of steps on the gravel-path. Presently 
he came back. Mrs. Middleton’s atti- 
tude was unchanged, except that she 
had drawn a little closer to the wall. 
But though she had never looked over 
her shoulder, she was uneasily conscious 
of the young man half sitting, half lying 
in the window-seat behind her. 

‘‘ Greenwell says it won’t be anything,” 
Hardwicke announced. ‘‘The glass has 
been slowly going up all day yesterday 
and to-day, and it is rising still. He be- 
lieves we have got a real change in the 
weather, and that it will keep fine for 
some time.” 

‘‘Thank God!” said ^ Mrs. Middleton. 
‘‘Do you think I’m very mad?” 


‘‘Not I,” Harry answered in a ‘‘theirs- 
not-to-reason-why ” manner. 

‘‘A week or two ago,” she said, ‘‘my 
poor darling was talking about dying, 
as you young folks will talk, and she 
said she hoped she should not die in 
the night, when the wind was howling 
round the house. A bitter winter night 
would be worst of all, she said. It won’t 
be that, but I fancied the wind was get- 
ting up, and it frightened me to think 
how one would hear it moaning in this 
old place. It is only a fancy, of course, 
but she might have thought of it again 
lying there.” 

Hardwicke could not have put it into 
words, but the fancy came to him too 
of Sissy’s soul flying out into the windy 
waste of air. 

‘‘Of course it is nothing — it is non- 
sense,” said Mrs. Middleton. ‘‘ But if it 
might be, as she said, when it is warm 
and light ! — if it might be I” She stopped 
with a catching in her voice. 

Harry, in his matter-of-fact way, offer- 
ed consolation: ‘‘Dear Mrs. Middleton, 
the sun will rise by four, and Greenwell 
says there won’t be any wind.” 

‘‘ Yes, yes I And she may not remem- 
ber.” 

‘‘ I hope you have been taking some 
rest,” he ventured to say after a brief 
silence. 

‘‘Yes. I was lying down this after- 
noon, and Sarah will take part of the 
night.” She paused, and spoke again 
in a still lower tone : ‘‘ Couldn’t you per- 
suade him to go away ?” 

‘‘Mr. Thorne ?” 

She nodded : ‘‘ I will not have her trou- 
bled. I asked her if she would see him 
again, and she said, ‘ No.’ I wish he 
would go. What is the use of his wait- 
ing there ?” 

Hardwicke shrugged his shoulders : 
‘‘ It is useless for me to try and persuade 
him. He won’t stir for me.” 

‘‘ I would send for him if she wanted 
him. But she won’t.” 

‘‘I’ll speak to him again if you like,” 
said Harry, ‘‘though it won’t do any 
good.” 

Nor did it when a few minutes later 
the promised attempt was made. ‘‘ I 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


shall stay here,” said Percival in a tone 
which conveyed unconquerable decision, 
and Hardwicke was silenced. The Green- 
wells came later, regretting that they had 
not a room to offer Mr. Thorne, but sug- 
gesting the sofa in the parlor or a mat- 
tress on the floor somewhere. Percival, 
however, declined everything with such 
courteous resolution that at last he was 
left alone. 

Again the night came on, with its 
shadows and its stillness, and the light 
burning steadily in the one room. To 
all outward seeming it was the same as 
it had been twenty -four hours earlier, 
but Mrs. Middleton, watching by the 
bedside, was conscious of a difference. 
Life was at a lower ebb : there was less 
eagerness and unrest, less of hope and 
fear, more of a drowsy acquiescence. 
And Percival, who had been longed for 
so wearily the night before, seemed to 
be altogether forgotten. 

Meanwhile, he kept his weary watch 
outside. He said to himself that he had 
darkened Sissy’s last day : he cursed his 
cruelty, and yet could he have done oth- 
erwise ? He was haunted through the 
long hours of the night by the words 
which had been ever on his lips when 
he won her — 

If she love me, this believe, 

I will die ere she shall grieve ; 

and he vowed that never was man so 
forsworn as he. Yet his one desire had 
been to be true. Had he not worship- 
ped Truth ? And this was the end of all. 

His cruelty, too, had been worse than 
useless. He had lost this chance of an 
independence, as he had lost Bracken- 
hill. He hated himself for thinking of 
money then, yet he could not help think- 
ing of it — could not help being aware 
that Sissy’s entreaty to him to take her 
fortune was worth nothing unless a will 
were made, and that there had been no 
mention of such a thing since she spoke 
to him that morning. And he was so 
miserably poor ! Of whom should he 
borrow the money to take him back to 
his drudgery at Brenthill ? Well, since 
Sissy no longer cared for his future, it 
was well that he had spoken. Better 
poverty than treachery. Let the mon- 


283 

ey go ; but, oh, to see her once again 
and ask her to forgive him ! 

As the night crept onward he grew 
drowsy and slept by snatches, lightly 
and uneasily, waking with sudden starts 
to a consciousness of the window at his 
side — a loophole into a ghostly sky where 
shreds of white cloud were driven swift- 
ly before the breeze. The wan crescent 
of the moon gleamed through them from 
time to time, showing how thin and phan- 
tom-like they were, and how they hurried 
on their way across the heavens. After a 
time the clouds and moon and midnight 
sky were mingled with Percival’s dreams, 
and toward morning he fell fast asleep. 

Again Aunt Harriet saw the first gray 
gleam of dawn. Slowly it stole in, widen- 
ing and increasing, till the candle-flame, 
which had been like a golden star shining 
out into the June night, was but a smoky 
yellow smear on the saffron morning. 
She rose and put it out. Turning, she 
encountered Sissy’s eyes. They looked 
from her to a window at the foot of the 
bed. “Open,” said Sissy. 

Mrs. Middleton obeyed. The sound 
of unfastening the casement awoke Sa- 
rah, who was resting in an easy -chair. 
She sat up and looked round. 

The breeze had died away, as Harry 
had foretold it would, and that day had 
dawned as gloriously as the two that had 
preceded it. A lark was soaring and sing- 
ing — a mere point in the dome of blue. 

Sissy lay and looked a while. Then 
she said, ” Brackenhill ?” 

Aunt Harriet considered for a mo- 
ment before she replied: “A little to 
the right, my darling.” 

The dying eyes were turned a little 
to the right. Seven miles away, yet the 
old gray manor-house rose before Aunt 
Harriet’s eyes, warm on its southern 
slope, with its shaven lawns and whis- 
pering trees and the long terrace with 
its old stone balustrade. Perhaps Sissy 
saw it too. 

“ Darling, it is warm and light,” the 
old lady said at last. 

Sissy smiled. Her eyes wandered 
from the window. ‘‘Aunt, you prom- 
ised,” she whispered. 

‘‘Yes, dear — yes, I promised.” 


284 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


There was a pause. Suddenly, Sissy 
spoke, more strongly and clearly than 
she had spoken for hours: ‘‘Tell Per- 
cival — my love to Miss Lisle.” 

‘‘Fetch him,” said Mrs. Middleton to 
Sarah, with a quick movement of her 
hand toward the door. As the old wo- 
man crossed the room Sissy looked af- 
ter her. In less than a minute Perci- 
val came in. His dark hair was tumbled 
over his forehead, and his eyes, though 
passionately eager, were heavy with 
sleep. As he came forward Sissy look- 
ed up and repeated faintly, like an echo, 
‘‘My love to Miss Lisle, Percival.” Her 
glance met his and welcomed him. But 
even as he said ‘‘ Sissy !” her eyes closed, 
and when, after a brief interval, they 
opened again, he was conscious of a 
change. He spoke and took her hand, 
but she did not heed. ‘‘She does not 
know me!” he said. 

Her lips moved, and Aunt Harriet 
stooped to catch the faint sound. It 
was something about ‘‘Horry — coming 
home from school.” 

Hardly knowing what she said — only 
longing for one more look, one smile of 
recognition, one word — Aunt Harriet 
spoke in painfully distinct tones : ‘‘ My 
darling, do you want Horace 1 Shall 
we send for Horace ?” 

No answer. There was a long pause, 
and then the indistinct murmur recom- 
menced. It was still ‘‘ Horry,” and ‘‘ Ro- 
ver,” and presently they thought she said 

Langley Wood.” 

‘‘Horace used to take her there for a 
treat.” said Mrs. Middleton. — ‘‘Oh, Sis- 
sy, don’t you know Aunt Harriet?” 

Still, from time to time, came the 
vague murmur of words. It was dark 
— the trees — she had lost — 

Percival stood in silent anguish. There 
was to him a bitterness worse than the 
bitterness of death in the sound of those 
faint words. Sissy was before him, yet 
she had passed away into the years when 
she did not know him. He might cry to 
her, but she would not hear. There was 
no word for him : the Sissy who had loved 
him and pardoned him was dead. This 
was the child Sissy with whom Horace 
had played at Brackenhill. 


The long bright morning seemed an 
eternity of blue sky, softly rustling leaves, 
birds singing and golden chequers of 
sunlight falling on walls and floor. Dr. 
Grey came in and stood near. The end 
was at hand, and yet delayed. The sun 
was high before the faint whispers of 
“Auntie,” and “Horry,” ceased alto- 
gether, and even then there was an in- 
terval during which Sissy still breathed, 
still lingered in the borderland between 
living and dying. Eagerly though they 
watched her, they could not tell the mo- 
ment when she left them. 

It was late that afternoon. Hardwicke 
lounged with his back against the gate of 
the orchard and his hands in his pockets. 
When he lifted his eyes from the turf on 
which he stood he could see the white 
blankness of a closed window through 
the boughs. 

He was sorely perplexed. Not ten 
minutes earlier Mrs. Latimer had been 
there, saying, “Something should be 
done : why does not Mr. Thorne go to 
her? Or could Dr. Grey say anything 
if he were sent for? I’m sure it isn’t 
right that she should be left so.” 

Mrs. Middleton was alone with her 
dead in that darkened room. She was 
perfectly calm and tearless. She only 
demanded to be left to herself. Mrs. 
Latimer would have gone in to cry and 
sympathize, but she was repulsed with a 
decision which was almost fierce. Sa- 
rah was not to disturb her. She wanted 
nothing. She wanted nobody. She must 
be by herself. She was terrible in her 
lonely misery. 

Hardwicke felt that it could not be his 
place to go. Somewhere in the priory 
ruins was Percival Thorne, hiding his 
sorrow and himself : should he find him 
and persuade him to make the attempt? 
But Harry had an undefined feeling that 
Mrs. Middleton did not want Percival. 

He stood kicking at a daisy-root in the 
grass, feeling himself useless, yet unwill- 
ing to desert his post, when a hand was 
pressed on his shoulder and he started 
round. Godfrey Hammond was on the 
other side of the gate, looking just as 
cool and colorless as usual. 

“ Thank God you’re come, Mr. Ham- 


^^FOR PERCIVALF 


285 


mond !” Harry exclaimed, and began to 
pour out his story in such haste that it was 
a couple of minutes before Godfrey fully 
understood him. The new-comer listen- 
ed attentively, asking a question or two. 
He brushed some imperceptible dust from 
his gray coat-sleeve, and sticking his glass 
in his eye he surveyed the farmhouse. 

“ I think I should like to see Mrs. Mid- 
dleton at once,” he said when Hardwicke 
had finished. 

Sarah showed him the way, but he pre- 
ferred to announce himself. He knock- 
ed at the door. 

” Who is there ?” said the voice within. 

‘‘It is I, Godfrey Hammond: I may 
come in ?” 

‘‘ Yes.” 

He opened the door and saw her sit- 
ting by the bedside, where something 
lay white and straight and still. She 
turned her head as he entered, then 
stood up and came a step or two to 
meet him. ‘‘ Oh, Godfrey !” she said in 
a low voice, ‘‘ she died this morning.” 

He put his arm about her. . ‘‘ I would 
have been here before if I could,” he 
said. 

‘‘ I knew it.” She trembled so much 
that he drew her nearer, supporting her 
as tenderly as if he were her son, though 
his face above her was unmoved as ever. 

‘‘She died this morning,” Mrs. Mid- 
dleton repeated. She hid her face sud- 
denly and burst into a passion of tears. 
‘‘Oh, Godfrey ! she was hurt so ! she was 
hurt so ! Oh my darling !” 

‘‘ We could not wish her to linger in 
pain,” he said softly. 

‘‘ No, no. But only this morning, and 
I feel as if I had been alone for years !” 

Still, through her weeping, she clung 
to him. His sympathy made a faint 
glimmer of light in the darkness, and 
her sad eyes turned to it. 


CHAPTER LIII. 

AFTERWARD. 

There is little more to write. Four 
years, with their varying seasons, their 
endless procession of events, their mul- 
titude of joys and sorrows, have passed 


I since Sissy died. Her place in the world, 
which seemed so blank and strange in its 
first vacancy, is closed up and lost in the 
crowding occupations of our ordinary life. 
She is not forgotten, but she has pass- 
ed out of the light of common day into 
the quiet world of years gone by, where 
there is neither crowd nor haste, but soft 
shadows and shadowy sunshine, and time 
for every tender memory and thought. 
Even Aunt Harriet’s sorrow is patient 
and subdued, and she sees her darling’s 
face, with other long-lost faces, softened 
as in a gentle dream. • She looks back to 
the past with no pain of longing. At 
seventy -eight she believes that she is 
nearer to those she loves by going for- 
ward yet a little farther. Nor are these 
last days sad, for in her loneliness God- 
frey Hammond persuaded her to come 
to him, and she is happy in her place 
by his fireside. He is all that is left to 
her, and she is wrapped up in him. 
Nothing is good enough for Godfrey, 
and he says, with a smile, that she 
would make the planets revolve round 
him if she could. It is very possible 
that if she had her will she might at- 
tempt some little rearrangement of that 
kind. Her only fear is lest she should 
ever be a burden to him. But that will 
never be. Godfrey likes her delicate, old- 
fashioned ways and words, and is glad to 
see the kind old face which smiled on him 
long ago when he was a lad lighted up 
with gentle pleasure in his presence now. 
When he bids her good-night he knows 
that she will pray before she lies down, 
and he feels as if his home and he were 
the better for those simple prayers utter- 
ed night and morning in an unbroken 
sequence of more than seventy years. 
There is a tranquil happiness in that 
house, like the short, golden days of a 
St. Martin’s summer or the November 
blooming of a rose. 

In the February after Sissy’s death 
Godfrey went to Rookleigh for a day, 
to be present at a wedding in the old 
church where the bridegroom had once 
lingered idly in the hot summer-time 
and pictured his marriage to another 
bride. That summer afternoon was not 
forgotten. Percival, standing on the un- 


286 


PERCIVAL: 


even pavement above the Shadvvells’ 
vault, remembered his vision of Sissy’s 
frightened eyes even while he uttered 
the words that bound him to Judith 
Lisle. But those words were not the 
less true because the thought of Sissy 
was hidden in his heart for ever. 

Since that day Percival has spent al- 
most all his time abroad, leading such 
a life as he pictured long ago, only the 
reality is fairer than the day-dream, be- 
cause Judith shares it with him. Together 
they travel or linger as the fancy of the 
moment dictates. Percival does not own 
a square yard of the earth’s surface, and 
therefore he is at liberty to wander over 
it as he will. He is conscious of a curious 
loneliness about Judith andhimself. They 
have no child, no near relations : it seems 
as if they were freed from all ordinary ties 
and responsibilities. His vague aspira- 


tions are even less definite than of old ; yet, 
though his life follows a wandering and 
uncertain track, fair flowers of kindliness, 
tolerance and courtesy spring up by that 
wayside. Judith and he do not so much 
draw closer day by day as find ever 
new similarity of thought and feeling 
already existing between them. His 
heart turns to her as to a haven of 
peace ; all his possibilities of happiness 
are in her hands ; he rests in the full 
assurance that neither deed nor word of 
hers can ever jar upon him ; in his darker 
moods he thinks of her as clear, still sun- 
light, and he has no desire apart from her. 
Yet when he looks back he doubts whe- 
ther his life can hold another moment so 
supreme in love and anguish as that mo- 
ment when he looked into Sissy’s eyes 
for the last time and knew himself for- 
given. 


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" It is a great luxury to give one’s self up to its 
balmy influence." — Chicago Evening journal. 

OVER YONDER. 

From the German of E. Marlitt, author of 
“ Countess Gisela,” etc. With a full-page 
Illustration. 8vo. Paper cover. 30 cents. 

" ' Over Yonder’ is a charming novelette. The 
admirers of * Old Mam’selle’s Secret’ will give it a 
glad reception, while those who are ignorant of the 
merits of this author will find in it a pleasant intro- 
duction to the works of a gifted writer.” — Daily 
Sentinel. 

MAGDALENA. 

From the German of E. Marlitt, author of 
“ Countess Gisela,” etc. And THE 
LONELY ONES. From the German of 
Paul Heyse. With two Illustrations. 
8vo. Paper cover. 35 cents. 

"We know of no way in which a leisure hour 
may be more pleasantly whiled away than by a 
perusal of either of these tales.” — Indianapolis 
Sentinel. 


THE WORKS OF WILHELMINE VON HIELERN. 


ONLY A GIRL. 

A Romance. From the German of Wilhel- 
MiNE VON Hillern. By Mrs. A. L. Wis- 
ter. l2mo. Fine cloth. $ 1 . 7 $. 

" This is a charming work, charmingly written, 
and no one who reads it can lay it down without 
feeling impressed with the superior talent of its 
gifted author. As a work of fiction it will com- 
pare favorably in style and interest with the best 
efforts of the most gifted writers of the day, while 
in the purity of its tone and the sound moral 
lesson it teaches it is equal, if not superior, to any 
work of the character that has for years come 
under our notice.” — Pittsburg Dispatch. 

“ Timely, forcible, and possessing far more 
than ordinary merits.” — Philadelphia North Amer- 
ican^ 


BY HIS OWN MIGHT. 

A Romance. Translated from the German 
of WiLHELMiNE VON Hillern, author of 
“Only a Girl,” etc. i2mo. Fine cloth. 

1.50* 

" The story is well constructed. It is vivacious, 
intricate, and well sustained. . . . It is one of 

the best of the many excellent novels from the Ger- 
man issued by this house.” — Phila. Ev. Bulletin. 

A TWOFOLD LIFE. 

From the German of Wilhelmine von Hil- 
lern, author of “ Only a Girl,” etc. i2mo. 
With Portrait. Fine cloth. ^11.50. 

" A capital novel, admirably written. None will 
arise from its perusal without acknowledging the 
strength and brilliancy of its writer.” — Boston 
Gazette, 



For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by mail, postpaid, upon receipt of the price 
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